UC-NRLF 


B    3    S7T 


N 


H€L€N  JACKSON 


:\w.=£ 


BETWEEN   WHILES. 


BETWEEN    WHILES. 


BY 


HELEN  JACKSON   (H.H.), 

AUTHOR    OF 
"  RAMONA,"    UA    CENTURY   OF   DISHONOR,"    "  VERSES,"    "SONNETS    AND 

LYRICS,"    "GLIMPSES  OF  THREE  COASTS,"    "BITS  OF  TRAVEL," 

"  BITS  OF  TRAVEL  AT  HOME,"   "  ZEPH,"  "MERCY  PHILBRICK'S 

CHOICE,"     "HETTY'S    STRANGE    HISTORY,"     "BITS    OF 

TALK  ABOUT  HOME  MATTERS,"  "  KITS  OF  TALK  FOR 

YOUNG  FOLKS,"    "NELLY'S   SILVER  MINE," 

"  CAT  STORIES." 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 

1887. 


Copyright,  1887, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR 7 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER    .     .     .     116 

LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT 177 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  "HEATHER  BELL"      .     220 

DANDY  STEVE 269 

THE  PRINCE'S  LITTLE  SWEETHEART  ....     292 


M15814 


BETWEEN  WHILES. 


THE   INN   OF   THE    GOLDEN    PEAR. 
I. 

Who  buys?  Who  buys?  T  is  like  a  market-fair  ; 
The  hubbub  rises  deafening  on  the  air  : 
The  children  spend  their  honest  money  there ; 
The  knaves  prowl  out  like  foxes  from  a  lair. 

Who  buys  ?  Who  sells  ?  Alas,  and  still  alas  ! 
The  children  sell  their  diamond  stones  for  glass ; 
The  knaves  their  worthless  stones  for  diamonds  pass. 
He  laughs  who  buys ;  he  laughs  who  sells.     Alas  ! 

IN  the  days  when  New  England  was  only 
a  group  of  thinly  settled  wildernesses 
called  "provinces,"  there  was  something 
almost  like  the  old  feudal  tenure  of  lands 
there,  and  a  relation  between  the  rich  land 
owner  and  his  tenants  which  had  many 
features  in  common  with  those  of  the  rela 
tion  between  margraves  and  vassals  in  the 
days  of  Charlemagne. 


BETWEEN   WHILES. 


Far  up  in  the  North,  near  the  Canada  line, 
there  lived  at  that  time  an  eccentric  old  man, 
whose  name  is  still  to  be  found  here  and 
there  on  the  tattered  parchments,  written 
"  WILLAN  BLAYCKE,  Gentleman." 

Tradition  occupies  itself  a  good  deal  with 

Willan    Blaycke,     and    does    not    give    his 

misdemeanors   the   go-by   as   it   might   have 

done  if  he  had  been  either  a  poorer  or  a  less 

clever  man.     Why  he  had  crossed  the  seas 

and  cast  in  his  lot  with  the  pious  Puritans, 

nobody  knew;    it  was  certainly  not  because 

of  sympathy  with  their  God-reverencing  faith 

and  God-fearing   lives,  nor   from   any   liking 

for   hardships   or   simplicity   of   habits.     He 

had   gold   enough,    the  stories   say,   to   have 

bought  all    the  land  from   the    St.   Johns   to 

the  Connecticut  if  he  had  pleased ;  and  he 

had  servants  and  horses  and  attire  such  as 

no  governor  in  all  the  provinces  could  boast. 

He  built  himself  a  fine   house  out  of  stone, 

and  the  life  he  led  in  it  was  a  scandal  and  a 

byword  everywhere.     For  all  that,  there  was 

not  a  man  to  be  found  who  had  not  a  good 

word  to  say  for  Willan  Blaycke,  and   not  a 

woman  who  did  not  look  pleased  and  smile 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   9 

if  he  so  much  as  spoke  to  her.  He  was 
generous,  with  a  generosity  so  princely  that 
there  were  many  who  said  that  he  had  no 
doubt  come  of  some  royal  house.  He  gave 
away  a  farm  to-day,  and  another  to-morrow, 
and  thought  nothing  of  it ;  and  when  ten 
ants  came  to  him  pleading  that  they  were 
unable  to  pay  their  rent,  he  was  never  known 
to  haggle  or  insist. 

Naturally,  with  such  ways  as  these  he  made 
havoc  of  his  estates,  vast  as  they  were,  and 
grew  less  and  less  rich  year  by  year.  How 
ever,  there  was  enough  of  his  land  to  last 
several  generations  out ;  and  if  he  had  mar 
ried  a  decent  woman  for  his  wife,  his  posterity 
need  never  have  complained  of  him.  But 
this  was  what  Willan  Blaycke  did,  —  and  it 
is  as  much  a  mystery  now  as  it  doubtless 
was  then,  why  he  did  it,  — he  married  Jeanne 
Dubois,  the  daughter  of  a  low-bred  and  evil- 
disposed  Frenchman  who  kept  a  small  inn 
on  the  Canadian  frontier.  Jeanne  had  a 
handsome  but  wicked  face.  She  stood  always 
at  the  bar,  and  served  every  man  who  came  ; 
and  a  great  thing  it  was  for  the  house,  to  be 
sure,  that  she  had  such  bold  black  eyes,  red 


10  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

cheeks,  and  a  tongue  even  bolder  than  her 
glances.  But  there  was  not  a  farmer  in  all 
the  north  provinces  who  would  have  taken 
her  to  wife,  not  one,  for  she  bore  none  too 
good  a  name  ;  and  men's  speech  about  her,  as 
soon  as  they  had  turned  their  backs  and  gone 
on  their  journeys,  was  quite  opposite  to  the 
gallant  and  flattering  things  they  said  to  her 
face  in  the  bar.  Some  people  said  that  Willan 
Blaycke  was  drunk  when  he  married  Jeanne, 
that  she  took  him  unawares  by  means  of  a 
base  plot  which  her  father  and  she  had  had  in 
mind  a  long  time.  Others  said  that  he  was 
sober  enough  when  he  did  it,  only  that  he 
was  like  one  out  of  his  mind, —  he  sorrowed 
so  for  the  loss  of  his  only  son,  Willan,  whom 
he  had  in  the  beginning  of  that  year  sent 
back  to  England  to  be  taught  in  school. 

He  had  brought  the  child  out  with  him, — a 
little  chap,  with  marvellously  black  eyes  and 
yellow  curls,  who  wore  always  the  costliest 
of  embroidered  coats,  which  it  was  plain  some 
woman's  hand  had  embroidered  for  him  ;  but 
whether  the  child's  mother  were  dead  or 
alive  Willan  Blaycke  never  told,  and  nobody 
dared  ask. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    1 1 

That  the  boy  needed  a  mother  sadly  enough 
was  only  too  plain.  Riding  from  county  to 
county  on  his  little  white  pony  by  his  father's 
side,  sitting  up  late  at  roystering  feasts  till  he 
nodded  in  his  chair,  seeing  all  that  rough  men 
saw,  and  hearing  all  that  rough  men  said,  the 
child  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  ruined  outright ; 
and  so  Willan  Blaycke  at  last  came  to  see, 
and  one  day,  in  a  fit  of  unwonted  conscien 
tiousness  and  wisdom,  he  packed  the  poor  sob 
bing  little  fellow  off  to  England  in  charge  of  a 
trusty  escort,  and  sternly  made  up  his  mind 
that  the  lad  should  not  return  till  he  was  a 
man  grown.  It  was  only  a  few  months  after 
this  that  Jeanne  Dubois  became  Mistress 
Willan  Blaycke ;  so  it  seemed  not  improb 
able  that  the  bereaved  father's  loneliness 
had  had  much  to  do  with  that  extraordinary 
step. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  whether  he  were  drunk 
or  sober  when  he  married  her,  he  treated  her 
as  a  gentleman  should  treat  his  wife,  and 
did  his  best  to  make  her  a  lady.  She  was 
always  clad  in  a  rich  fashion ;  and  a  fine 
show  she  made  in  her  scarlet  petticoat  and 
white  hat  with  a  streaming  scarlet  feather 


12  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

in  it,  riding  high  on  her  pillion  behind  Willan 
Blaycke  on  his  great  black  horse,  or  sitting 
up  straight  and  stiff  in  the  swinging  coach 
with  gold  on  the  panels,  which  he  had 
bought  for  her  in  Boston  at  a  sale  of  the 
effects  of  one  of  the  disgraced  and  removed 
governors  of  the  province  of  Massachusetts. 
If  there  had  been  any  roads  to  speak  of  in 
those  days,  Jeanne  Dubois  would  have  driven 
from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  land  in 
her  fine  coach,  so  proud  was  she  of  its 
splendor;  but  even  pride  could  not  heal  the 
bruises  she  got  in  jolting  about  in  it,  nor  the 
terror  she  felt  of  being  overturned.  So  she 
gradually  left  off  using  it,  and  consoled  her 
self  by  keeping  it  standing  in  all  good  weather 
in  full  sight  from  the  highway,  that  everybody 
might  know  she  had  it. 

It  was  a  sore  trial  to  Jeanne  that  she  had 
no  children,  —  a  sore  trial  also  to  her  wicked 
old  father,  who  had  plotted  that  the  great 
Blaycke  estates  should  go  down  in  the 
hands  of  his  descendants.  Not  so  Willan 
Blaycke.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  consolation 
to  him  in  his  last  days  to  think  that  his  son 
Willan. would  succeed  to  everything,  and  the 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    13 

Dubois  blood  remain  still  in  its  own  muddy 
channel.  It  is  evident  that  before  he  died 
he  had  come  to  think  coldly  of  his  wife ;  for 
his  mention  of  her  in  his  will  was  of  the  curt- 
est,  and  his  provision  for  her  during  her  life 
time,  though  amply  sufficient  for  her  real 
needs,  not  at  all  in  keeping  with  the  style  in 
which  she  had  dwelt  with  him. 

The  exiled  Willan  had  returned  to  America 
a  year  before  his  father's  death.  He  was  a 
quiet,  well-educated,  rather  scholarly  young 
man.  It  would  be  foolish  to  deny  that  his 
filial  sentiment  had  grown  cool  during  the 
long  years  of  his  absence,  and  that  it  re 
ceived  some  violent  shocks  on  his  return  to 
his  father's  house.  But  he  was  full  of  am 
bition,  and  soon  saw  the  opening  which  lay 
before  him  for  distinction  and  wealth  as  the 
ultimate  owner  of  the  Blaycke  estates.  To 
this  end  he  bent  all  his  energies.  He  had 
had  in  England  a  good  legal  education  ;  he 
was  a  clear  thinker  and  a  ready  speaker, 
and  speedily  made  himself  so  well  known 
and  well  thought  of,  that  when  his  father  died 
there  were  many  who  said  it  was  well  the 
old  man  had  been  taken  away  in  time  to 


14  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

leave   the   young  Willan  a  property    worthy 
of  his  talents  and  industry. 

Willan  had  lived  in  his  father's  house 
more  as  a  guest  than  as  a  son.  To  the 
woman  who  was  his  father's  wife,  and  sat 
at  the  head  of  his  father's  table,  he  bore 
himself  with  a  distant  courtesy,  which  was 
far  more  irritating  to  her  coarse  nature  than 
open  antagonism  would  have  been.  But 
Jeanne  Dubois  was  clever  woman  enough 
to  comprehend  her  own  inferiority  to  both 
father  and  son,  and  to  avoid  collisions  with 
either.  She  had  won  what  she  had  played 
for,  and  on  the  whole  she  had  not  been  dis 
appointed.  As  she  had  never  loved  her 
husband,  she  cared  little  that  he  did  not 
love  her;  and  as  for  the  upstart  of  a  boy 
with  his  fine  airs,  well,  she  would  bide  her 
time  for  that,  Jeanne  thought,  —  for  it  had 
never  crossed  Jeanne's  mind  that  when  her 
husband  died  she  would  not  be  still  the 
mistress  of  the  fine  stone  house  and  the  gilt 
panelled  coach,  and  have  more  money  than 
she  knew  what  to  do  with.  Many  malicious 
reveries  she  had  indulged  in  as  to  how, 
when  that  time  came,  she  would  "send  the 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.  1 5 

fellow  packing,"  "he  shouldn't  stay  in  her 
house  a  day."  So,  when  it  came  to  pass 
that  the  cards  were  turned,  and  it  was  Wil- 
lan  who  said  to  her,  on  the  morning  after 
his  father's  funeral,  "What  are  your  plans, 
Madame?"  Jeanne  was  for  a  few  seconds  lit 
erally  dumb  with  anger  and  astonishment. 

Then  she  poured  out  all  the  pent-up  hatred 
of  her  vulgar  soul.  It  was  a  horrible  scene. 
Willan  conducted  himself  throughout  the 
interview  with  perfect  calmness  ;  the  same 
impassable  distance  which  had  always  been 
so  exasperating  to  Jeanne  was  doubly  so 
now.  He  treated  her  as  if  she  were  merely 
some  dependant  of  the  house,  for  whom  he, 
as  the  executor  of  the  will,  was  about  to  pro 
vide  according  to  instructions. 

"  If  I  can't  live  in  my  own  house,"  cried 
the  angry  woman,  "  I  '11  go  back  to  my  father 
and  tend  bar  again ;  and  how  '11  you  like 
that?" 

"It  is  purely  immaterial  to  me,  Madame," 
replied  Willan,  "where  you  live.  I  merely 
wish  to  know  your  address,  that  I  may  for 
ward  to  you  the  quarterly  payments  of  your 
annuity.  I  should  think  it  probable,"  he 


1 6  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

added  with  an  irony  which  was  not  thrown 
away  on  Jeanne,  "that  you  would  be  happier 
among  your  own  relations  and  in  the  occu 
pations  to  which  you  were  accustomed  in 
your  youth." 

Jeanne  was  not  deficient  in  spirit.  As 
soon  as  she  had  ascertained  beyond  a  doubt 
that  all  that  Willan  had  told  her  was  true, 
and  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  her  ever 
getting  from  the  estate  anything  except  her 
annuity,  she  packed  up  all  her  possessions 
and  left  the  house.  No  fine  instinct  had 
restrained  her  from  laying  hands  on  every 
thing  to  which  she  could  be  said  to  have  a 
shadow  of  claim,  —  indeed,  on  many  things 
to  which  she  had  not,  —  and  even  Willan 
himself,  who  had  been  prepared  for  her  prob 
able  greed,  was  surprised  when  on  returning 
to  the  house  late  one  evening  he  found  the 
piazza  piled  high  from  one  end  to  the  other 
with  her  boxes.  Jeanne  stood  by  with  a 
defiant  air,  superintending  the  cording  of 
the  last  one.  She  anticipated  some  remon 
strance  or  inquiry  from  Willan,  and  was 
half  disappointed  when  he  passed  by,  giving 
no  sign  of  having  observed  the  boxes  at  all, 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    I/ 

and  simply  lifting  his  hat  to  her  with  his 
usual  formality.  The  next  morning,  instead 
of  the  public  vehicle  which  Jeanne  had  en 
gaged  to  call  for  her,  her  own  coach  and  the 
gray  horses  she  had  best  liked  were  driven 
to  the  door.  This  unexpected  tribute  from 
Willan  almost  disarmed  her  for  the  moment. 
It  was  her  coach  almost  more  than  her  house 
which  she  had  grieved  to  lose. 

"Well,  really,  Mr.  Willan,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  I  never  once  thought  of  taking  that,  though 
there  's  no  doubt  about  its  being  my  own,  and 
your  father 'd  tell  you  so  if  he  was  here  ;  and 
the  horses  too.  He  always  said  the  grays 
were  mine  from  the  day  he  bought  them. 
But  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you,  I  'm  sure." 

"  You  have  no  occasion  to  thank  me,  Ma 
dame,"  replied  Willan,  standing  on  the  thresh 
old  of  the  house,  pale  with  excitement  at  the 
prospect  of  immediate  freedom  from  the  pres 
ence  of  the  coarse  creature.  "  The  coach  is 
your  own,  and  the  horses  ;  and  if  they  had 
not  been,  I  should  not  have  permitted  them 
to  remain  here." 

"  Oh  ho  !  "  sneered  Jeanne,  all  her  antago 
nism  kindled  afresh  at  this  last  gratuitous 


1 8  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

fling.  "  You  need  n't  think  you  can  get  rid  of 
everything  that  '11  remind  you  of  me,  young 
man.  You  '11  see  me  oftener  than  you  like, 
at  the  Golden  Pear.  You'll  have  to  stop 
there,  as  your  father  did  before  you."  And 
Jeanne's  black  eyes  snapped  viciously  as  she 
drove  off,  her  piles  of  boxes  following  slowly 
in  two  wagon-loads  behind. 

Willan  was  right  in  one  thing.  After  the 
first  mortification  of  returning  to  her  father's 
house,  a  widow,  disgraced  by  being  pensioned 
off  from  her  old  home,  had  worn  away,  Jeanne 
was  happier  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her 
life.  Her  annuity,  which  was  small  for  Mis 
tress  Willan  Blaycke,  was  large  for  Jeanne, 
daughter  of  the  landlord  of  the  Golden  Pear ; 
and  into  that  position  she  sank  back  at  once, 
—  so  contentedly,  too,  that  her  father  was 
continually  reproaching  her  with  a  great  lack 
of  spirit.  It  was  a  sad  come-down  from  his  old 
air-castles  for  her  and  for  himself,  —  he  still 
the  landlord  of  a  shabby  little  inn,  and  Jeanne, 
stout  and  middle-aged,  sitting  again  behind 
the  bar  as  she  had  done  fifteen  years  before. 
It  was  pretty  hard.  So  long  as  he  knew  that 
Jeanne  was  living  in  her  fine  house  as  Mistress 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    19 

Blaycke  he  had  been  content,  in  spite  of 
Willan  Blaycke's  having  sternly  forbidden 
him  ever  to  show  his  face  there.  But  this 
last  downfall  was  too  much.  Victor  Dubois 
ground  his  teeth  and  swore  many  oaths  over 
it.  But  no  swearing  could  alter  things  ;  and 
after  a  while  Victor  himself  began  to  take 
comfort  in  having  Jeanne  back  again.  "  And 
not  a  bit  spoiled,"  as  he  would  say  to  his  cro 
nies,  "  by  all  the  fine  ways,  to  which  she  had 
never  taken;  thanks  to  God,  Jeanne  was  as 
good  a  girl  yet  as  ever."  —  "  And  as  handsome 
too,"  the  politic  cronies  would  add. 

The  Golden  Pear  was  a  much  more  attractive 
place  since  Jeanne  had  come  back.  She  was  a 
good  housekeeper,  and  she  had  learned  much 
in- Willan  Blaycke's  house.  Moreover,  she  was 
a  generous  creature,  and  did  not  in  the  least 
mind  spending  a  few  dollars  here  and  there 
to  make  things  tidier  and  more  comfortable. 

A  few  weeks  after  Jeanne's  return  to  the 
inn  there  appeared  in  the  family  a  new  and 
by  no  means  insignificant  member.  This  was 
the  young  Victorine  Dubois,  who  was  a  daugh 
ter,  they  said,  of  Victor  Dubois's  son  Jean, 
the  twin  brother  of  Jeanne.  He  had  gone  to 


20  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

Montreal  many  years  ago,  and  had  been  mod 
erately  prosperous  there  as  a  wine-seller  in  a 
small  way.  He  had  been  dead  now  for  two 
years,  and  his  widow,  being  about  to  marry 
again,  was  anxious  to  get  the  young  Victorine 
off  her  hands.  So  the  story  ran,  and  on  the 
surface  it  looked  probable  enough.  But  Mon 
treal  was  not  a  great  way  off  from  the  parish 
of  St.  Urbans,  in  which  stood  Victor  Dubois's 
inn  ;  there  were  men  coming  and  going 
often  who  knew  the  city,  and  who  looked 
puzzled  when  it  was  said  in  their  hearing  that 
Victorine  was  the  eldest  child  of  Jean  Dubois 
the  wine-seller.  She  had  been  kept  at  a  con 
vent  all  these  years,  old  Victor  said,  her  father 
being  determined  that  at  least  one  of  his  chil 
dren  should  be  well  educated. 

Nobody  could  gainsay  this,  and  Mademoiselle 
Victorine  certainly  had  the  air  of  having  been 
much  better  trained  and  taught  than  most  girls 
in  her  station.  But  somehow,  nobody  quite 
knew  why,  the  tale  of  her  being  Jean  Dubois's 
daughter  was  not  believed.  Suspicions  and  at 
last  rumors  were  afloat  that  she  was  an  ille 
gitimate  child  of  Jeanne's,  born  a  few  years 
before  her  marriage  to  Willan  Blaycke. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    21 

Nothing  easier,  everybody  knew,  than  for 
Mistress  Willan  Blaycke  to  have  supported 
half  a  dozen  illegitimate  children ,  if  she  had  had 
them,  on  the  money  her  husband  gave  her  so 
lavishly  ;  and  there  was  old  Victor,  as  ready 
and  unscrupulous  a  go-between  as  ever  an 
unscrupulous  woman  needed.  These  rumors 
gained  all  the  easier  credence  because  Vic- 
torine  bore  so  striking  a  resemblance  to  her 
"  Aunt  Jeanne."  On  the  other  hand,  this 
ought  not  to  have  been  taken  as  proof  any 
more  one  way  than  the  other ;  for  there  were 
plenty  of  people  who  recollected  very  well 
that  in  the  days  when  little  Jean  and  Jeanne 
toddled  about  together  as  children,  nobody 
but  their  mother  could  tell  them  apart,  except 
by  their  clothes.  So  the  winds  of  gossiping 
breaths  blew  both  ways  at  once  in  the  matter, 
and  it  was  much  discussed  for  a  time.  But 
like  all  scandals,  as  coon  as  it  became  an  old 
story  nobody  cared  whether  it  were  false  or 
true  ;  and  before  Victorine  had  been  a  year 
at  the  Golden  Pear,  the  question  of  her  rela 
tionship  there  was  rarely  raised. 

One  thing  was  certain,  that  no  mother  could 
have  been  fonder  or  more  devoted  to  a  child 


22  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

than  Jeanne  was  to  her  niece  ;  and  everybody 
said  so,  —  some  more  civilly,  some  maliciously. 
Her  pride  in  the  girl's  beauty  was  touching  to 
see.  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  she 
was  ever  a  beauty  herself ;  and  she  had  no 
need  to  do  this,  for  Jeanne  was  not  yet  forty, 
and  many  men  found  her  piquant  and  pleas 
ing  still.  But  all  her  vanity  seemed  now  to 
be  transferred  to  Victorine.  It  was  Victorine 
who  was  to  have  all  the  fine  gowns  and  orna 
ments  ;  Victorine  who  must  go  to  the  dances 
and  fetes  in  costumes  which  were  the  wonder 
and  the  envy  of  all  the  girls  in  the  region  ; 
Victorine  who  was  to  have  everything  made 
easy  and  comfortable  for  her  in  the  house ; 
and  above  all,  —  and  here  the  mother  betrayed 
herself,  for  mother  she  was  ;  the  truth  may 
as  well  be  told  early  as  late  in  our  story,  — 
most  of  all,  it  was  Victorine  who  was  to  be 
kept  away  from  the  bar,  and  to  be  spared  all 
contact  with  the  rough  roysterers  who  fre 
quented  the  Golden  Pear. 

Very  ingenious  were  Jeanne' s*  excuses  for 
these  restrictions  on  her  niece's  liberty.  Still 
more  ingenious  her  explanations  of  the  occa 
sional  exceptions  she  made  now  and  then  in 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    23 

favor  of  some  well-to-do  young  farmer  of  the 
neighborhood,  or  some  traveller  in  whom  her 
alert  maternal  eye  detected  a  possible  suitor 
for  Victorine's  hand.  Victorine  herself  was 
not  so  fastidious.  She  was  young,  handsome, 
overflowing  with  vitality,  and  with  no  more 
conscience  or  delicacy  than  her  mother  had 
had  before  her.  If  the  whole  truth  had  been 
known  concerning  the  last  four  years  of  her 
life  in  the  convent,  it  would  have  considerably 
astonished  those  good  Catholics,  if  any  such 
there  be,  who  still  believe  that  convents  are 
sacred  retreats  filled  with  the  chaste  and  the 
devout.  Victorine  Dubois  at  the  age  of  eigh 
teen,  when  her  grandfather  took  her  home  to 
his  house,  was  as  well  versed  a  young  woman 
in  the  ways  and  the  wiles  of  love-making  as  if 
she  had  been  free  to  come  and  go  all  her  life. 
And  that  this  knowledge  had  been  gained 
surreptitiously,  in  stolen  moments  and  brief 
experiences  at  the  expense  of  the  whole  of 
her  reverence  for  religion,  the  whole  of  her 
faith  in  men's  purity,  was  not  poor  Victorine's 
fault,  only  her  misfortune  ;  but  the  result  was 
no  less  disastrous  to  her  morals.  She  went 
out  of  the  convent  as  complete  a  little  hypo- 


24  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

crite  as  ever  told  beads  and  repeated  prayers. 
Only  a  certain  sort  of  infantile  superstitious- 
ness  of  nature  remained  in  her,  and  made  her 
cling  to  the  forms,  in  which,  though  she  knew 
they  did  not  mean  what  they  pretended,  she 
suspected  there  might  be  some  sort  of  me 
chanical  efficacy  at  last ;  like  the  partly  un 
deceived  disciple  and  assistant  of  a  master 
juggler,  who  is  not  -quite  sure  that  there  may 
not  be  a  supernatural  power  behind  some  of 
the  tricks.  Beyond  an  overflowing  animal 
vitality,  and  a  passion  for  having  men  make 
love  to  her,  there  really  was  not  much  of  Vic- 
torine.  But  it  is  wonderful  how  far  these  two 
qualities  can  pass  in  a  handsome  woman  for 
other  and  nobler  ones.  The  animal  life  so 
keen,  intense,  sensuous,  can  seem  like  clever 
ness,  wit,  taste ;  the  passion  for  receiving 
homage  from  men  can  make  a  woman  grace 
ful,  amiable,  and  alluring.  Some  of  the  great 
est  passions  the  world  has  ever  seen  have 
been  inspired  in  men  by  just  such  women 
as  this. 

Victorine  was  not  without  accomplishments 
and  some  smattering  of  knowledge.  She  had 
read  a  good  deal  of  French,  and  chattered  it 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    2$ 

like  the  true  granddaughter  of  a  Normandy  pro- 
prietaire.  She  sang,  in  a  half-rude,  half-melo 
dious  way,  snatches  of  songs  which  sounded 
better  than  they  really  were,  she  sang  them 
with  so  much  heartiness  and  abandon.  She 
embroidered  exquisitely,  and  had  learned  the 
trick  of  making  many  of  the  pretty  and  use 
less  things  at  which  nuns  work  so  patiently  to 
fill  up  their  long  hours.  She  had  an  insatia 
ble  love  of  dress,  and  attired  herself  daily  in 
successions  of  varied  colors  and  shapes  merely 
to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  on  the 
chance  of  showing  herself  to  any  stray  trav 
eller  who  might  come. 

The  inn  had  been  built  in  a  piecemeal  fash 
ion  by  Victor  Dubois  himself,  and  he  had 
been  unconsciously  guided  all  the  while  by 
his  memories  of  the  old  farmhouse  in  Nor 
mandy  in  which  he  was  born  ;  so  that  the 
house  really  looked  more  like  Normandy  than 
like  America.  It  had  on  one  corner  a  square 
tower,  which  began  by  being  a  shed  attached 
to  the  kitchen,  then  was  promoted  to  bearing 
up  a  chamber  for  grain,  and  at  last  was  topped 
off  by  a  fine  airy  room,  projecting  on  all  sides 
over  the  other  two,  and  having  great  casement 


26  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

windows  reaching  close  up  to  the  broad,  hang 
ing  eaves.  A  winding  staircase  outside  led 
to  what  had  been  the  grain-chamber :  this  was 
now  Jeanne's  room.  The  room  above  was 
Victorine's,  and  she  reached  it  only  by  a  nar 
row,  ladder-like  stairway  from  her  mother's 
bedroom  ;  so  the  young  lady's  movements  were 
kept  well  in  sight,  her  mother  thought.  It 
was  an  odd  thing  that  it  never  occurred  to 
Jeanne  how  near  the  sill  of  Victorine's  south 
window  was  to  the  stout  railing  of  the  last 
broad  platform  of  the  outside  staircase.  This 
railing  had  been  built  up  high,  and  was  partly 
roofed  over,  making  a  pretty  place  for  pots 
of  flowers  in  summer  ;  and  Victorine  never 
looked  so  well  anywhere  as  she  did  leaning 
out  of  her  window  and  watering  the  flowers 
which  stood  there.  Many  a  flirtation  went 
on  between  this  casement  window  and  the 
courtyard  below,  where  all  the  travellers  were 
in  the  habit  of  standing  and  talking  with  the 
ostlers,  and  with  old  Victor  himself,  who  was 
not  the  landlord  to  leave  his  ostlers  to  do  as 
they  liked  with  horses  and  grain,  —  many 
a  flirtation,  but  none  that  meant  or  did  an)/ 
harm  ;  for  with  all  her  wildness  and  love  of 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    27 

frolic,  Mademoiselle  Victorine  never  lost  her 
head.  Deep  down  in  her  heart  she  had  an 
ambition  which  she  never  confessed  even  to 
her  aunt  Jeanne.  She  had  read  enough  ro 
mances  to  believe  that  it  was  by  no  means  an 
impossible  thing  that  a  landlord's  daughter 
should  marry  a  gentleman  ;  and  to  marry  a 
gentleman,  if  she  married  at  all,  Victorine  was 
fully  resolved.  She  never  tired  of  question 
ing  her  aunt  about  the  details  of  her  life  in 
Willan  Blaycke's  house ;  and  she  sometimes 
gazed  for  hours  at  the  gilt-panelled  coach, 
which  on  all  fine  days  stood  in  the  courtyard 
of  the  Golden  Pear,  the  wonder  of  all  rustics. 
On  the  rare  occasions  when  her  aunt  went 
abroad  in  this  fine  vehicle,  Victorine  sat  by 
her  side  in  an  ecstasy  of  pride  and  delight. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  to  be  the  owner  of  such 
a  coach  as  that,  to  live  in  a  fine  house,  and 
have  a  fine  gentleman  for  one's  husband  must 
be  the  very  climax  of  bliss.  She  wondered 
much  at  her  aunt's  contentment  in  her  present 
estate. 

"  How  canst  thou  bear  it,  Aunt  Jeanne  ? " 
she  said  sometimes.  "  How  canst  thou  bear 
to  live  as  we  live  here,  —  to  be  in  the  bar-room 


BETWEEN   WHILES. 


with  the  men,  and  to  sit  always  in  the  smoke, 
after  the  fine  rooms  and  the  company  thou 
hadst  for  so  long  ?  " 

"  Bah  !  "  Jeanne  would  reply.  "  It 's  little 
thou  knowest  of  that  fine  company.  I  had 
like  to  die  of  weariness  more  often  than  I  was 
gay  in  it ;  and  as  for  fine  rooms,  I  care  noth 
ing  for  them." 

"  But  thy  husband,  Aunt  Jeanne,"  Victorine 
once  ventured  to  say,  —  "  surely  thou  wert  not 
weary  when  he  was  with  thee  ? " 

Jeanne's  face  darkened.  "  Keep  a  civiller 
tongue  in  thy  head,"  she  replied,  "  than  to  be 
talking  to  widows  of  the  husbands  they  have 
buried.  He  was  a  good  man,  Willan  Blaycke, 
—  a  good  man  ;  but  I  liked  him  not  overmuch, 
though  we  lived  not  in  quarrelling.  He  went 
his  ways,  as  men  go,  and  I  let  him  be." 

Victorine's  curiosity  was  by  no  means  sat 
isfied.  She  asked  endless  questions  of  all 
whom  she  met  who  could  tell  her  anything 
about  her  aunt's  husband.  Very  much  she 
regretted  that  she  had  not  been  taken  from 
the  convent  before  this  strange,  free-hearted, 
rollicking  gentleman  had  died.  She  would 
have  managed  affairs  better,  she  thought,  than 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    29 

Aunt  Jeanne  had  done.  Romantic  visions  of 
herself  as  his  favorite  flitted  through  her 
brain. 

"  Why  didst  thou  not  send  for  me  sooner 
to  come  to  thee,  Aunt  Jeanne,"  she  said,  "  that 
I  too  might  have  seen  the  life  in  the  great 
stone  house  ? " 

A  sudden  flush  covered  Jeanne's  face.  Was 
she  never  to  hear  the  end  of  troublesome  ques 
tions  about  the  past  ? 

"  Wilt  thou  never  have  done  with  it  ?  "  she 
said,  half  angrily.  "  Has  it  never  been  said 
in  thy  hearing  how  that  my  husband  would 
not  permit  even  my  father  to  come  inside  of 
his  house,  much  less  one  no  nearer  than 
thou  ?"  And  Jeanne  eyed  Victorine  sharply, 
with  a  suspicion  which  was  wholly  uncalled 
for.  Nobody  had  ever  been  bold  or  cruel 
enough  to  suggest  to  Victorine  any  doubts 
regarding  her  birth.  The  girl  was  indignant. 
She  had  never  known  before  that  her  grand 
father  had  been  thus  insulted. 

"  What  had  grandfather  done?"  she  cried. 
"  Was  he  not  thy  husband's  father,  too,  being 
thine?  How  dared  thy  husband  treat  him 
so  ? " 


30  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

Jeanne  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  A 
latent  sense  of  justice  to  her  dead  husband 
restrained  her  from  assenting  to  Victorine's 
words. 

"  Nay,"  she  said  ;  "  there  are  many  things 
thou  canst  not  understand.  Thy  grandfather 
never  complained.  Willan  -Blaycke  treated 
me  most  fairly  while  he  lived ;  and  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  boy,  I  would  have  had  thee 
in  the  stone  house  to-day,  and  had  all  my 
rights." 

"  Why  did  the  boy  hate  thee  ?  "  asked  Vic- 
torine.  "  What  is  he  like  ?  " 

"As  like  to  a  magpie  as  one  magpie  is 
to  another,"  said  Jeanne,  bitterly  ;."  with  his 
fine  French  cloth  of  black,  and  his  white  ruf 
fles,  and  his  long  words  in  his  mouth.  Ah, 
but  him  I  hate !  It  is  to  him  we  owe  it  all." 

"  Dwells  he  now  in  the  great  house  alone  ? " 
said  Victorine. 

"Ay,  that  he  does,  —  alone  with  his  books, 
of  which  he  has  about  as  many  as  there  are 
leaves  on  the  trees  ;  one  could  not  so  much 
as  step  or  sit  for  a  book  in  one's  way.  I  did 
hear  that  he  has  now  with  him  another  of  his 
own  order,  and  that  the  two  are  riding  all 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    31 

over  the  country,  marking  out  the  lines  anew 
of  all  the  farms,  and  writing  new  bonds  which 
are  so  much  harder  on  men  than  the  old  ones 
were.  Bah  !  but  he  has  the  soul  of  a  miser 
in  him,  for  all  his  handsome  face  !  " 

"  Is  he  then  so  very  handsome,  Aunt 
Jeanne  ? "  said  Victorine,  eagerly. 

"  Ay,  ay,  child.  1 11  give  him  his  due  for 
that,  evilly  as  he  has  treated  me.  He  is  a 
handsomer  man  than  his  father  was ;  and 
when  his  father  and  I  were  married  there  was 
not  a  woman  in  the  provinces  that  did  not  say 
I  had  carried  off  the  handsomest  man  that 
ever  strode  a  horse.  I  'd  like  to  have  had 
thee  see  me,  too,  in  that  day,  child.  I  was 
counted  as  handsome  as  he,  though  thou  'dst 
never  think  it  now." 

"  But  I  would  think  it !  "  cried  Victorine, 
hotly  and  loyally.  "  What  ails  thee,  Aunt 
Jeanne  ?  Did  I  not  hear  Father  Hennepin 
himself  saying  to  thee  only  yesterday  that 
thou  wert  comelier  to-day  than  ever  ?  and  he 
saw  thee  married,  he  told  me." 

"  Tut,  tut,  child  ! "  replied  Jeanne,  looking 
pleased.  "  None  know  better  than  the  priests 
how  to  speak  idle  words  to  women.  But 


32  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

what  was  he  telling  thee  ?  How  came  it  that 
he  spoke  of  the  time  when  I  was  married  ? " 
added  Jeanne,  again  suspicious. 

"  It  was  I  that  asked  him,"  replied  Victor- 
ine.  "  I  wish  always  so  much  that  I  had 
been  with  thee  instead  of  in  the  convent,  dear 
aunt.  Does  this  son  of  thy  husband,  this 
handsome  young  man  who  is  so  like  unto  a 
magpie,  —  does  he  never  in  his  journeyings 
come  this  way  ?  " 

"  Ay,  often,"  replied  Jeanne.  "  I  know 
that  he  must,  because  a  large  part  of  his  es 
tate  lies  beyond  the  border  and  joins  on  to 
this  parish.  It  was  that  which  brought  his 
father  here,  in  the  beginning,  and  there  is  no 
other  inn  save  this  for  miles  up  and  down  the 
border  where  he  can  tarry  ;  but  it  is  likely 
that  he  will  sooner  lie  out  in  the  fields  than 
sleep  under  this  roof,  because  I  am  here.  I 
had  looked  to  say  my  mind  to  him  as  often 
as  he  came  ;  and  that  it  would  be  a  sore  thing 
to  him  to  see  his  father's  wife  in  the  bar,  I 
know  beyond  a  doubt.  I  have  often  said  to  my 
self  what  a  comfortable  spleen  I  should  expe 
rience  when  I  might  courtesy  to  him  and  say, 
'  What  would  you  be  pleased  to  take,  sir  ? ' 


THE  INN  OP"  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    33 
4^ 

But  I  think  he  is  minded  to  rob  me  of  that 
pleasure,  for  it  is  certain  he  must  have  ridden 
this  way  before  now." 

"I  have  a  mind  to  burn  a  candle  to  the 
Virgin,"  said  Victorine,  slowly,  "  that  he  may 
come  here.  I  would  like  for  once  to  set  my 
eyes  on  his  face." 

An  unwonted  earnestness  in  Victorine's 
tone  and  a  still  more  unwonted  seriousness 
in  her  face  arrested  Jeanne's  attention. 

"What  is  it  to  thee  to  see  him  or  not  to 
see  him,  eh  ?  What  is  it  thou  hast  in  thy 
silly  head.  If  thou  thinkest  thou  couldst  win 
him  over  to  take  us  back  to  live  in  his  house 
again,  —  which  is  my  own  house,  to  be  sure,  if 
I  had  my  rights,  —  thy  wits  are  wool-gather 
ing,  I  can  tell  thee  that,"  cried  Jeanne.  "  He 
has  the  pride  of  ten  thousand  devils  in  him. 
There  was  that  in  his  face  when  I  drove  away 
from  the  door,  —  and  he  standing  with  his 
head  uncovered  too, —  which  I  tell  thee  if  I 
had  been  a  man  I  could  have  killed  him  for. 
He  take  us  back  !  He !  he  !  "  And  Jeanne 
laughed  a  bitter  laugh  at  the  bare  idea  of 
the  thing. 

"I    had    not   thought   of  any  such   thing, 
3 


34  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

Aunt  Jeanne,"  replied  Victorine,  still  speak 
ing  slowly,  and  still  with  a  dreamy  expression 
on  her  face,  as  she  leaned  out  of  the  window 
and  began  idly  plucking  the  blossoms  from 
a  bough  of  the  big  pear-tree,  which  was  now 
all  white  with  flowers  and  buzzing  with  bees. 
"  Dost  thou  not  think  the  bees  steal  a  little 
sweet  that  ought  to  go  into  the  fruit?"  con 
tinued  the  artful  girl,  who  did  not  choose 
that  her  aunt  should  question  her  any  further 
as  to  the  reason  of  her  desire  to  see  Willan 
Blaycke.  "  I  remember  that  once  Father 
Anselmo  at  the  convent  said  to  me  he 
thought  so.  There  was  a  vine  of  the  wild 
grape  which  ran  all  over  the  wall  between 
the  cloister  and  the  convent ;  and  when  it 
was  in  bloom  the  air  sickened  one,  and 
thou  couldst  hardly  go  near  the  wall  for  the 
swarming  bees  that  were  drinking  the  honey 
from  the  flowers.  And  Father  Anselmo 
said  one  evening  that  they  were  thieves ; 
they  stole  sweet  which  ought  to  go  into 
the  grapes." 

This  was  a  clever  diversion.  It  turned 
Jeanne's  thoughts  at  once  away  from  Willan 
Blaycke,  but  it  did  not  save  Mademoiselle 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    35 

Victorine  from  a  catechising  quite  as  sharp 
as  she  was  in  danger  of  on  the  other 
subject. 

"And  what  wert  thou  doing  talking  with 
a  priest  in  the  garden  at  night?"  cried 
Jeanne,  fiercely.  "  Is  that  the  way  maidens 
are  trained  in  a  convent !  Shame  on  thee, 
Victorine  !  what  hast  thou  revealed  ? " 

"  The  Virgin  forbid,"  answered  Victorine, 
piously,  racking  her  brains  meanwhile  for  a 
ready  escape  from  this  dilemma,  and  trying 
in  her  fright  to  recall  precisely  vvhat  she  had 
just  said.  "  I  said  not  that  he  told  it  to  me  in 
the  garden  ;  it  was  in  the  confessional  that  he 
said  it.  I  had  confessed  to  him  the  grievous 
sin  of  a  horrible  rage  I  had  been  in  when  one 
of  the  bees  had  stung  me  on  the  lip  as  I  was 
gathering  the  cool  vine  leaves  to  lay  on  the 
good  Sister  Clarice's  forehead,  who  was  ill 
with  a  fever." 

"  Eh,  eh!"  said  Jeanne,  relieved  ;  "  was  that 
it  ?  I  thought  it  could  not  be  thou  wert  in 
the  garden  in  the  evening  hours,  and  with  a 
priest." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Victorine,  demurely.  "  It  was 
not  permitted  to  converse  with  the  priests 


36  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

except  in  the  chapel."  And  choking  back  an 
amused  little  laugh  she  bounded  to  the  ladder- 
like  stairway  and  climbed  up  into  her  own 
room. 

"  Saints  !  what  an  ankle  the  girl  has,  to  be 
sure ! "  thought  Jeanne,  as  she  watched  Vic- 
torine's  shapely  legs  slowly  vanishing  up  the 
stair.  "What  has  filled  her  head  so  full  of 
that  upstart  Willan,  I  wonder ! " 

A  thought  struck  Jeanne  ;  the  only  wonder 
was  it  had  never  struck  her  before.  In  her 
sudden  excitement  she  sprung  from  her  chair, 
and  began  to  walk  rapidly  up  and  down  the 
floor.  She  pressed  her  hand  to.  her  forehead ; 
she  tore  open  the  handkerchief  which  was 
crossed  on  her  bosom ;  her  eyes  flashed  ;  her 
cheeks  grew  red  ;  she  breathed  quicker. 

"  The  girl  's  handsome  enough  to  turn  any 
man's  head,  and  twice  as  clever  as  I  ever 
was,"  she  thought. 

She  sat  down  in  her  chair  again.  The 
idea  which  had  occurred  to  her  was  over 
whelming.  She  spoke  aloud  and  was  un 
conscious  of  it. 

"  Ah,  but  that  would  be  a  triumph ! "  she 
said.  "  Who  knows  ?  who  knows  ? " 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    37 

"  Victorine  !  "  she  called  ;  "  Victorine  !  " 

"  Yes,  aunt,"  replied  Victorine. 

"There  's  plenty  of  honey  left  in  the  flowers 
to  keep  pears  sweet  after  the  bees  are  dead," 
said  Jeanne,  mischievously,  and  went  down 
stairs  chuckling  over  her  new  secret  thought. 
"  I  '11  never  let  the  child  know  I  've  thought 
of  such  a  thing,"  she  mused,  as  she  took  her 
accustomed  seat  in  the  bar.  "  I  '11  bide  my 
time.  Strange  things  have  happened,  and 
may  happen  again." 

"What  a  queer  speech  of  Aunt  Jeanne's  !  " 
thought  Victorine  at  her  casement  window. 
"  What  a  fool  I  was  to  have  said  anything 
about  Father  Anselmo !  Poor  fellow !  I 
wonder  why  he  does  n't  run  away  from  the 
monastery !" 


38  BETWEEN  WHILES. 


II. 

The  south  wind's  secret,  when  it  blows, 

Oh,  what  man  knows  ? 
How  did  it  turn  the  rose's  bud 

Into  a  rose  ? 
What  went  before,  no  garden  shows  ; 

Only  the  rose  ! 

What  hour  the  bitter  north  wind  blows, 

The  south  wind  knows. 
Why  did  it  turn  the  rose's  bud 

Into  a  rose  ? 
Alas,  to-day  the  garden  shows 

A  dying  rose  ! 

JEANNE  had  not  to  wait  long.  It  was  only 
a  few  days  after  this  conversation  with  Vic- 
torine,  —  the  big  pear-tree  was  still  snowy- 
white  with  bloom,  and  the  tireless  bees  still 
buzzed  thick  among  its  boughs,  —  when 
Jeanne,  standing  in  the  doorway  at  sunset, 
saw  two  riders  approaching  the  inn.  At  her 
first  glance  she  recognized  Willan  Blaycke. 
Jeanne's  mind  moved  quickly.  In  the  twink 
ling  of  an  eye  she  had  sprung  back  into  the 
bar-room,  and  said  to  her  father,  — 

"Father,  father,  be  quick!  Here  comes 
Willan  Blaycke  riding  ;  and  another,  an  old 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    39 

man,  with  him.  Thou  must  tend  the  bar ; 
for  hand  so  much  as  a  glass  of  gin  to  that 
man  will  I  never.  I  shut  myself  up  till  he 
is  gone." 

"Nay,  nay,  Jeanne,"  replied  Victor ;  "I'll 
turn  him  from  my  door.  He's  to  get  no 
lodging  under  this  roof,  he  nor  his,  —  I  prom 
ise  you  that."  And  Victor  was  bustling  angrily 
to  the  door. 

This  did  not  suit  Mistress  Jeanne  at  all. 
In  great  dismay  inwardly,  but  outwardly  with 
slow  and  smooth-spoken  accents,  as  if  reflect 
ing  discreetly,  she  replied,  "  He  might  do  me 
great  mischief  if  he  were  angered,  father. 
All  the  moneys  go  through  his  hand.  I  think 
it  is  safer  to  speak  him  fair.  He  hath  the 
devil's  own  temper  if  he  be  opposed  in  the 
smallest  thing.  It  has  cost  him  sore  enough, 
I  '11  be  bound,  to  find  himself  here  at  sundown, 
and  beholden  to  thee  for  shelter ;  it  is  none 
of  his  will  to  come,  I  know  that  well  enough. 
Speak  him  fair,  father,  speak  him  fair  ;  it  is  a 
silly  fowl  that  pecks  at  the  hand  which  holds 
corn.  I  will  hide  myself  till  he  is  away, 
though,  for  I  misgive  me  that  I  should  be  like 
to  fly  out  at  him." 


40  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

"But,  Jeanne  — "  persisted  Victor.  But 
Jeanne  was  gone. 

"  Speak  him  fair,  father  ;  take  no  note  that 
aught  is  amiss,"  she  called  back  from  the  up 
per  stair,  from  which  she  was  vanishing  into 
her  chamber.  "  I  will  send  Victorine  to  wait 
at  the  supper.  He  hath  never  seen  her,  and 
need  not  to  know  that  she  is  of  our  kin  at  all." 

"  Humph  !  "  muttered  Victor.  "  Small 
doubt  to  whom  the  girl  is  kin,  if  a  man  have 
eyes  in  his  head."  And  he  would  have  ar 
gued  the  point  longer  with  Jeanne,  but  he 
had  no  time  left,  for  the  riders  had  already 
turned  into  the  courtyard,  and  were  giving 
their  horses  in  charge  to  the  white-headed 
ostler  Benoit.  Benoit  had  served  in  the 
Golden  Pear  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  He 
had  served  Victor  Dubois's  father  in  Nor 
mandy,  had  come  with  his  young  master  to 
America,  and  was  nominally  his  servant  still. 
But  if  things  had  gone  by  their  right  names 
at  the  Golden  Pear,  old  Benoit  would  not 
have  been  called  servant  for  many  a  year 
back.  Not  a  secret  in  that  household  which 
Benoit  had  not  shared  ;  not  a  plot  he  had  not 
helped  on.  At  Jeanne's  marriage  he  was  the 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   41 

only  witness  except  Father  Hennepin  ;  and 
there  were  some  who  recollected  still  with 
what  extraordinary  chuckles  of  laughter  Be- 
noit  had  walked  away  from  the  chapel  after 
that  ceremony  had  been  completed.  To  the 
young  Victorine  Benoit  had  been  devoted 
ever  since  her  coming  to  the  inn.  Whenever 
she  appeared  in  sight  the  old  man  came  to 
gaze  on  her,  and  stood  lingering  and  admiring 
as  long  as  she  remained. 

"  Thou  art  far  handsomer  than  thy  mother 
ever  was,"  he  had  said  to  her  one  morning 
soon  after  her  arrival. 

"  Oh,  didst  thou  know  my  mother,  then, 
when  she  was  young  ? "  cried  Victorine. 
"  She  is  not  handsome  now,  though  she  is 
newly  wed  ;  when  she  came  to  see  me  in  the 
convent,  I  thought  her  very  ugly.  When 
didst  thou  know  her,  Benoit  ?  " 

Benoit  was  very  red  in  the  face,  and  began 
to  toss  straw  vigorously  as  he  looked  away 
from  Victorine  and  answered  :  "  It  was  but 
once  that  I  had  sight  of  her,  when  Master 
Jean  brought  her  here  after  they  were  mar 
ried.  Thou  dost  not  favor  her  in  the  least. 
Thou  art  like  Master  Jean." 


42  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

"And  the  saints  know  that  that  last  is 
the  holy  truth,  whatever  the  rest  may  be," 
thought  Benoit,  as  he  bustled  about  the 
courtyard. 

"  But  thy  tongue  is  the  tongue  of  an  im 
becile,"  said  Victor,  following  him  into  the 
stable. 

"  Ay,  that  it  is,  sir,"  replied  Benoit,  humbly. 
"  I  had  like  to  have  bitten  it  off  before  I  had 
finished  speaking ;  but  no  harm  came." 

"  Not  this  time,"  replied  Victor ;  "  but  the 
next  thou  might  not  be  so  well  let  off.  The 
girl  has  a  sharper  wit  than  she  shows  ordi 
narily.  She  hath  learned  too  well  the  ways 
of  convents.  I  trust  her  not  wholly,  Benoit. 
Keep  thy  eyes  open,  Benoit.  We  '11  not  have 
her  go  the  ways  of  'her  mother  if  it  can  be 
helped."  And  the  worldly  and  immoral  old 
grandfather  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  wicked 
laugh. 

Benoit  had  never  seen  young  Willan  Blaycke, 
but  he  knew  him  at  his  first  glance. 

"The  son  !"  he  muttered  under  his  breath, 
as  he  saw  him  alight.  "  Is  he  to  be  lodged 
here?  I  doubt."  And  Benoit  looked  about 
for  Victor,  who  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    43 

Slowly  and  with  a  surly  face  he  came  for 
ward  to  take  the  horses. 

"  What  're  you  about,  old  man  ?  Wear  you 
shoes  of  lead  ?  Take  our  horses,  and  see  you 
to  it  they  are  well  rubbed  down  before  they 
have  aught  to  eat  or  drink.  We  have  ridden 
more  than  ten  leagues  since  the  noon,"  cried 
the  elder  of  the  two  travellers. 

"  And  ought  to  have  ridden  more,"  said  the 
younger  in  an  undertone.  It  was,  as  Jeanne 
had  said,  a  sore  thing  to  Willan  Blaycke  to  be 
forced  to  seek  a  night's  shelter  in  the  Golden 
Pear. 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  the  other,  "what  odds! 
It  is  a  whimsey,  a  weakness  of  yours,  boy. 
What 's  the  woman  to  you  ? " 

Victor  Dubois,  who  had  come  up  now, 
heard  these  words,  and  his  swarthy  cheek 
was  a  shade  darker.  Benoit,  who  had  lin 
gered  till  he  should  receive  a  second  order 
from  the  master  of  the  inn  as  to  the  strangers' 
horses,  exchanged  a  quick  glance  with  Vic 
tor,  while  he  said  in  a  respectful  tone,  "  Two 
horses,  sir,  for  the  night."  The  glance  said, 
"I  know  who  the  man  is;  shall  we  keep 
him  ? " 


44  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

"  Ay,  Benoit,"  Victor  answered  ;  "  see  that 
Jean  gives  them  a  good  rubbing  at  once. 
They  have  been  hard  ridden,  poor  beasts  ! " 
While  Victor  was  speaking  these  words  his 
eyes  said  to  Benoit,  "  Bah !  It  is  even  so ; 
but  we  dare  not  do  otherwise  than  treat  him 
fair." 

"Will  you  be  pleased  to  walk  in,  gentle 
men  ;  and  what  shall  I  have  the  honor  of 
serving  for  your  supper?"  he  continued. 
"  We  have  some  young  pigeons,  if  your  wor 
ships  would  like  them,  fat  as  partridges,  and 
still  a  bottle  or  two  left  of  our  last  autumn's 
cider." 

"  By  all  means,  landlord,  by  all  means,  let 
us  have  them,  roasted  on  a  spit,  man,  -—  do 
you  hear  ?  —  roasted  on  a  spit,  and  let  your 
cook  lard  them  well  with  fat  bacon ;  there 
is  no  bird  so  fat  but  a  larding  doth  help  it 
for  my  eating,"  said  the  elder  man,  rubbing 
his  hands  and  laughing  more  and  more  cheer 
ily  as  his  companion  looked  each  moment 
more  and  more  glum. 

"  No,  I  '11  not  go  in,"  said  Willan,  as  Victor 
threw  open  the  door  into  the  bar-room.  "  It 
suits  me  better  to  sit  here  under  the  trees 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   45 

until  supper  is  ready."  And  he  threw  himself 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  great  pear-tree.  He 
feared  to  see  Jeanne  sitting  in  the  bar,  as  she 
had  threatened.  The  ground  was  showered 
thick  with  the  soft  white  petals  of  the  blos 
soms,  which  were  now  past  their  prime.  Wil- 
lan  picked  up  a  handful  of  them  and  tossed 
them  idly  in  the  air.  As  he  did  so,  a  shower 
of  others  came  down  on  his  face,  thick,  fast ; 
they  half  blinded  him  for  a  moment.  He 
sprung  to  his  feet  and  looked  up.  It  was  like 
looking  into  a  snowy  cloud.  He  saw  noth 
ing.  "  Some  bird  flying  through,"  he  thought, 
and  lay  down  again. 

"  Ah  !  luck  for  the  bees, 

The  flowers  are  in  flower ; 
Luck  for  the  bees  in  spring. 

Ah  me,  but  the  flowers,  they  die  in  an  hour  ; 
No  summer  is  fair  as  the  spring. 

Ah  !  luck  for  the  bees ; 
The  honey  in  flowers 

Is  highest  when  they  are  on  wing  !  " 

came  in  a  gay  Provencal  melody  from  the 
pear-tree  above  Willan's  head,  and  another 
shower  of  white  petals  fell  on  his  face. 

"  Good  God ! "  said  Willan  Blaycke,  under 
his  breath,  "  what  witchcraft  is  going  on  here  ? 


46  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

what  girl's  voice  is  that  ? "     And  he  sprang 
again  to  his  feet. 

The  voice  died  slowly  away ;  the  singer 
was  moving  farther  off, — 

"  Ah !  woe  for  the  bees, 

The  flowers  are  dead  ; 
No  summer  is  fair  as  the  spring. 

Ah  me,  but  the  honey  is  thick  in  the  comb ; 
'T  is  a  long  time  now  since  spring. 

Ah,  woe  for  the  bees 
That  honey  is  sweet, 

Is  sweeter  than  anything  !  " 

"Sweeter  than  anything,  —  sweeter  than 
anything ! "  the  voice,  grown  faint  now,  re 
peated  this  refrain  over  and  over,  as  the 
syllables  of  sound  died  away. 

It  was  Victorine  going  very  slowly  down 
the  staircase  from  her  room  into  Jeanne's. 
And  it  was  Victorine  who  had  accidentally 
brushed  the  pear-tree  boughs  as  she  watered 
her  plants  on  the  roof  of  the  outside  stairway. 
She  did  not  see  Willan  lying  on  the  ground 
underneath,  and  she  did  not  think  that  Willan 
might  be  hearing  her  song;  and  yet  was 
her  head  full  of  Willan  Blaycke  as  she  went 
down  the  staircase,  and  not  a  little  did  she 
quake  at  the  thought  of  seeing  him  below. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   47 

Jeanne  had  come  breathless  to  her  room, 
crying,  "  Victorine  !  Victorine  !  That  son  of 
my  husband's  of  whom  we  were  talking,  young 
Willan  Blaycke,  is  at  the  door,  —  he,  and  an  old 
man  with  him  ;  and  they  must  perforce  stay 
here  all  night.  Now,  it  would  be  a  shame  I 
could  in  no  wise  bear  to  stand  and  serve  him 
at  supper.  Wilt  thou  not  do  it  in  my  stead  ? 
there  are  but  the  two."  And  the  wily  Jeanne 
pretended  to  be  greatly  distressed,  as  she 
sank  into  a  chair  and  went  on  :  "  In  truth,  I 
do  not  believe  I  can  look  on  his  face  at  all. 
I  will  keep  my  room  till  he  have  gone  his 
way,  —  the  villain,  the  upstart,  that  I  may 
thank  for  all  my  trouble !  Oh,  it  brings  it 
all  back  again,  to  see  his  face  ! "  And  Jeanne 
actually  brought  a  tear  or  two  into  her 
wily  eyes. 

The  no  less  wily  Victorine  tossed  her  head 
and  replied  :  "  Indeed,  then,  and  the  waiting 
on  him  is  no  more  to  my  liking  than  to  thine 
own,  Aunt  Jeanne  !  I  did  greatly  desire  to  see 
his  face,  to  see  what  manner  of  man  he  could 
be  that  would  turn  his  father's  widow  out  of 
her  house ;  but  I  think  Benoit  may  hand  the 
gentleman  his  wine,  not  I."  And  Victorine 


48  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

sauntered  saucily  to  the  window  and  looked 
out. 

"'A  plague  on  all  their  tempers!"  thought 
Jeanne,  impatiently.  Her  plans  seemed  to  be 
thwarted  when  she  least  expected  it.  For  a 
few  moments  she  was  silent,  revolving  in  her 
mind  the  wisdom  of  taking  Victorine  into  her 
counsels,  and  confiding  to  her  the  motive  she 
had  for  wishing  her  to  be  seen  by  Willan 
Blaycke.  But  she  dreaded  lest  this  might 
defeat  her  object  by  making  the  girl  self-con 
scious.  Jeanne  was  perplexed  ;  and  in  her 
perplexity  her  face  took  on  an  expression  as 
if  she  were  grieved.  Victorine,  who  was 
much  dismayed  by  her  aunt's  seeming  acqui 
escence  in  her  refusal  to  serve  the  supper, 
exclaimed  now,  — 

"  Nay,  nay,  Aunt  Jeanne,  do  not  look 
grieved.  I  will  indeed  go  down  and  serve 
the  supper,  if  thou  takest  it  so  to  heart.  The 
man  is  nothing  to  me,  that  I  need  fear  to  see 
him." 

"Thou  art  a  good  girl,"  replied  Jeanne, 
much  relieved,  and  little  dreaming  how  she 
had  been  gulled  by  Mademoiselle  Victorine,  — 
"  thou  art  a  good  girl,  and  thou  shalt  have 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    49 

my  lavender-colored  paduasoy  gown  if  thou 
wilt  lay  thyself  out  to  see  that  all  is  at  its 
best,  both  in  the  bedrooms  and  for  the  supper. 
I  would  have  Willan  Blaycke  perceive  that 
one  may  live  as  well  outside  of  his  house  as  in 
it.  And,  Victorine,"  she  added,  with  an  at 
tempt  at  indifference  in  her  tone,  "  wear  thy 
white  gown  thou  hadst  on  last  Sunday.  It 
pleased  me  better  than  any  gown  thou  hast 
worn  this  year,  —  that,  and  thy  black  silk 
apron  with  the  red  lace ;  they  become  thee." 

So  Victorine  had  arrayed  herself  in  the 
white  gown  ;  it  was  of  linen  quaintly  woven, 
with  a  tiny  star  thrown  up  in  the  pattern,  and 
shone  like  damask.  The  apron  was  of  heavy 
black  silk,  trimmed  all  around  with  crimson 
lace,  and  crimson  lace  on  the  pockets.  A 
crimson  rose  in  Victorine's  black  hair  and 
crimson  ribbons  at  her  throat  and  on  her 
sleeves  completed  the  toilet.  It  was  ravish 
ing  ;  and  nobody  knew  it  better  than  Made 
moiselle  Victorine  herself,  who  had  toiled 
many  an  hour  in  the  convent  making  the 
crimson  lace  for  the  precise  purpose  of  trim 
ming  a  black  apron  with  it,  if  ever  she  es 
caped  from  the  convent,  and  who  had  chosen 
4 


50  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

out  of  fifty  rose-bushes  at  the  last  Parish  Fair 
the  one  whose  blossoms  matched  her  crimson 
lace.  There  is  a  picture  still  to  be  seen  of 
Victorine  in  this  costume ;  and  many  a  hand 
some  young  girl,  having  copied  the  costume 
exactly  for  a  fancy  ball,  has  looked  from  the 
picture  to  herself  and  from  herself  to  the  pic 
ture,  and  gone  to  the  ball  dissatisfied,  thinking 
in  her  heart, — 

"  After  all,  I  don't  look  half  as  well  in  it  as 
that  French  girl  did." 

As  Victorine  came  leisurely  down  the  stairs, 
half  singing,  half  chanting,  her  little  song, 
Jeanne  looked  at  her  in  admiration. 

"  Well,  and  if  either  of  the  men  have  an 
eye  for  a  pretty  girl  clad  in  attire  that  be 
comes  her,  they  can  look  at  thee,  my  Victor 
ine.  That  black  apron  will  go  well  with  the 
lavender  paduasoy  also." 

"  That  it  will,  Aunt  Jeanne,"  answered  Vic 
torine,  her  face  glowing  with  pleasure.  "  I 
can  never  thank  thee  enough.  I  did  not 
think  ever  to  have  the  paduasoy  for  my 
own." 

"  All  my  gowns  are  for  thee,"  said  Jeanne, 
in  a  voice  of  great  tenderness.  "  I  shall 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    51 

presently  take  to  the  wearing  of  black ;  it 
better  suits  my  years.  Thou  canst  be  young  ; 
it  is  enough.  I  am  an  old  woman." 

Victorine  bent  over  and  kissed  her  aunt, 
and  whispered  :  "  Fie  on  thee,  Aunt  Jeanne  ! 
The  Father  Hennepin  does  not  think  thee  an 
old  woman  ;  neither  Pierre  Gaspare!  from  the 
mill.  I  hear  the  men  when  they  are  talking 
under  my  window  of  thee.  Thou  knowest 
thou  mightest  wed  any  day  if  thou  hadst  the 
mind." 

Jeanne  shook  her  head.  "  That  I  have 
not,  then,"  she  said.  "  I  keep  the  name  of 
Willan  Blaycke  for  all  that  of  any  man  here 
abouts  which  can  be  offered  to  me.  Thou 
art  the  one  to  wed,  not  I.  But  far  off  be  that 
day,"  she  added  hastily  ;  "  thou  art  young 
for  it  yet." 

"  Ay,"  replied  the  artful  young  maiden, 
•"that  am  I,  and  I  think  I  will  be  old  before 
any  man  make  a  drudge  of  me.  I  like  my 
freedom  better.  And  now  will  I  go  down  and 
serve  thy  stepson,  —  the  handsome  magpie, 
the  reader  of  books."  And  with  a  mocking 
laugh  Victorine  bounded  down  the  staircase 
and  went  into  the  kitchen.  Her  grandfather 


52  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

was  running  about  there  in  great  confusion, 
from  dresser  to  fireplace,  to  table,  to  pantry, 
back  and  forth,  breathless  and  red  in  the  face. 
The  pigeons  were  sputtering  before  the  fire, 
and  the  odor  of  the  frying  bacon  filled  the 
place. 

"  Diable !  Girl,  out  of  this  ! "  he  cried ;  "  this 
is  no  place  for  thee.  Go  to  thine  aunt." 

"  She  did  bid  me  come  and  serve  the  sup 
per  for  the  strangers,"  replied  Victorine. 
"  She  herself  will  not  come  down." 

"  Go  to  the  devil !  Thou  shalt  not,  and  it 
is  I  that  say  it,"  shouted  Victor ;  and  Vic 
torine,  terrified,  fled  back  to  Jeanne,  and 
reported  her  grandfather's  words. 

Poor  Jeanne  was  at  her  wit's  end  now. 
"Why  said  he  that?"  she  asked. 

<l  I  know  not,"  replied  Victorine,  demurely. 
"  He  was  in  one  of  his  great  rages,  and  I  do 
think  that  the  pigeons  are  fast  burning,  by 
the  smell." 

"  Bah  !  "  cried  Jeanne,  in  disgust.  "  Is  this 
a  house  to  live  in,  where  one  cannot  be  let 
down  from  one's  chamber  except  in  sight  of 
the  highway  ?  Run,  Victorine  !  Look  over 
and  see  if  the  strangers  be  in  sight.  I  must 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    53 

go  down  to  the  kitchen.  I  would  a  witch 
were  at  hand  with  a  broom  or  a  tail  of  a 
mare.  I  'd  mount  and  down  the  chimney, 
I  warrant  me  !  " 

Laughing  heartily,  Victorine  ran  to  recon 
noitre.  "There  is  none  in  sight,"  she  cried. 
"  Thou  canst  come  down.  A  man  is  asleep 
under  the  pear-tree,  but  I  think  not  he  is  one 
of  them." 

Jeanne  ran  quickly  down  the  stairs,  fol 
lowed  by  Victorine,  who,  as  she  entered  the 
kitchen  again,  took  up  her  position  in  one 
corner,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  wall, 
tapping  her  pretty  little  black  slippers  with 
their  crimson  bows  impatiently  on  the  floor. 
Jeanne  drew  her  father  to  one  side,  and 
whispered  in  his  ear.  He  retorted  angrily, 
in  a  louder  tone.  Not  a  look  or  tone  was  lost 
on  Victorine.  Presently  the  old  man,  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders,  went  back  to  the  pigeons, 
and  began  to  turn  the  spit,  muttering  to  him 
self  in  French.  Jeanne  had  conquered. 

"  Thy  grandfather  is  in  a  rage,"  she  said 
to  Victorine,  "because  we  must  give  meat 
and  drink  to  the  man  who  has  treated  me 
so  ill ;  that  is  why  he  did  not  wish  thee  to 


54  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

serve.  But  I  have  persuaded  him  that  it  is 
needful  that  we  do  all  we  can  to  keep  Willan 
Blaycke  well  disposed  to  us.  He  might  with 
hold  from  me  all  my  money  if  he  so  chose ; 
and  he  is  rich,  and  we  are  but  poor  people. 
We  could  not  find  any  redress.  So  do  thou 
take  care  and  treat  him  as  if  thou  hadst  never 
heard  aught  against  him  from  me.  It  will 
lie  with  thee,  child,  to  see  that  he  goes  not 
away  angered  ;  for  thy  grandfather  is  in  a 
mood  when  the  saints  themselves  could  not 
hold  his  tongue  if  he  have  a  mind  to  speak. 
Keep  thou  out  of  his  sight  till  supper  be 
ready.  I  stay  here  till  all  is  done." 

Between  the  kitchen  and  the  common  living- 
room,  which  -was  also  the  dining-room,  was  a 
long  dark  passage-way,  at  one  end  of  which 
was  a  small  storeroom.  Here  Victorine  took 
refuge,  to  wait  till  her  aunt  should  call  her  to 
serve  the  supper.  The  window  of  this  store 
room  was  wide  open.  The  shutter  had  fallen 
off  the  hinges  several  days  before,  and  Benoit 
had  forgotten  to  put  it  up.  Victorine  seated 
herself  on  a  cider  cask  close  to  the  window, 
and  leaning  her  head  against  the  wall  began 
to  sing  again  in  a  low  tone.  She  had  a  habit 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    55 

of  singing  at  all  times,  and  often  hardly  knew 
that  she  sang  at  all.  The  Provencal  melody 
was  still  running  in  her  head. 

"  Ah  !  luck  for  the  bees, 

The  flowers  are  in  flower; 
Luck  for  the  bees  in  spring. 

Ah  me,  but  the  flowers,  they  die  in  an  hour; 
No  summer  is  fair  as  the  spring. 

Ah  !  luck  for  the  bees  ; 
The  honey  in  flowers 

Is  highest  when  they  are  on  wing  !  " 

she  sang.  Then  suddenly  breaking  off  she 
began  singing  a  wild,  sad  melody  of  another 
song:  — 

"  The  sad  spring  rain, 

It  has  come  at  last. 
The  graves  lie  plain, 

And  the  brooks  run  fast ; 
And  drip,  drip,  drip, 

Falls  the  sad  spring  rain ; 
And  tears  fall  fresh, 

In  the  sad  spring  air, 
From  lovers'  eyes, 

On  the  graves  laid  bare." 

It  was  very  dark  in  the  storeroom  ;  it  was 
dark  out  of  doors.  The  moon  had  been  up 
for  an  hour,  but  the  sky  was  overcast  thick 
with  clouds.  Willan  Blaycke  was  still  asleep 
under  the  pear-tree.  His  head  was  only  a 
few  feet  from  the  storeroom  window.  The 


56  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

sound  of  Victorine's  singing  reached  his  ears, 
but  did  not  at  first  waken  him,  only  blended 
confusedly  with  his  dreams.  In  a  few  sec 
onds,  however,  he  waked,  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and  looked  about  him  in  bewilderment.  Out 
of  the  darkness,  seemingly  within  arm's  reach, 
came  the  low  sweet  notes,  — 

"  And  drip,  drip,  drip, 

Falls  the  sad  spring  rain ; 
And  tears  fall  fresh, 

In  the  sad  spring  air, 
From  lovers'  eyes, 
On  the  graves  laid  bare.'* 

Groping  his  way  in  the  direction  from  which 
the  voice  came,  Willan  stumbled  against  the 
wall  of  the  house,  and  put  his  hand  on  the 
window-sill.  "  Who  sings  in  here  ? "  he  cried, 
fumbling  in  the  empty  space. 

"  Holy  Mother  !  "  shrieked  Victorine,  and 
ran  out  of  the  storeroom,  letting  the  door 
shut  behind  her  with  all  its  force.  The 
noise  echoed  through  the  inn,  and  waked 
Willan's  friend,  who  was  also  taking  a  nap  in 
one  of  the  old  leather-cushioned  high-backed 
chairs  in  the  bar-room.  Rubbing  his  eyes, 
he  came  out  to  look  for  Willan.  He  met  him 
on  the  threshold. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    $7 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  "  where  have  you  been  all 
this  time  ?  I  have  slept  in  a  chair,  and  am 
vastly  rested." 

"  The  Lord  only  knows  where  I  have  been," 
answered  Willan,  laughing.  "  I  too  have 
slept ;  but  a  woman  with  a  voice  like  the 
voice  of  a  wild  bird  has  been  singing  strange 
melodies  in  my  ear." 

The  elder  man  smiled.  "The  dreams  of 
young  men,"  he  said,  "  are  wont  to  have  the 
sound  of  women's  voices  in  them." 

"  This  was  no  dream,"  retorted  Willan. 
"  She  was  so  near  me  I  heard  the  panting 
breath  with  which  she  cried  out  and  fled  when 
I  made  a  step  towards  her." 

"  Gentlemen,  will  it  please  you  to  walk  in 
to  supper? "  said  Victor,  appearing  in  the  door 
way  with  a  clean  white  apron  on,  and  no 
trace,  in  his  smiling  and  obsequious  counte 
nance,  of  the  rage  in  which  he  had  been  a 
few  minutes  before. 

A  second  talk  with  Jeanne  after  Victorine 
had  left  the  kitchen  had  produced  a  deep 
impression  on  Victor's  mind.  He  was  now 
as  eager  as  Jeanne  herself  for  the  meeting 
between  Victorine  and  Willan  Blaycke. 


58  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

The  pigeons  were  not  burned,  after  all. 
Most  savory  did  they  smell,  and  Willan 
Blaycke  and  his  friend  fell  to  with  a  will. 

"  Saidst  thou  not  thou  hadst  some  of  thy  fa 
mous  pear  cider  left,  landlord  ?  "  asked  Willan. 

"Ay,  sir,  my  granddaughter  has  gone  to 
draw  it ;  she  will  be  here  in  a  trice." 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened,  and  Vic- 
torine  entered,  bearing  in  her  left  hand  a  tray 
with  two  curious  old  blue  tankards  on  it ;  in 
her  right  hand  a  gray  stone  jug  with  blue 
bands  at  its  neck.  Both  the  jug  and  the 
tankards  had  come  over  from  Normandy 
years  ago.  Victorine  raised  her  eyes,  and 
looking  first  at  Willan,  then  at  his  friend, 
went  immediately  to  the  older  man,  and  cour- 
tesying  gracefully,  set  her  tray  down  on  the 
table  by  his  side,  and  filled  the  two  tankards. 
The  cider  was  like  champagne  ;  it  foamed  and 
sparkled.  The  old  man  eyed  it  keenly. 

"  This  looks  like  the  cidre  mousseux  I  drank 
at  Littry,"  he  said,  and  taking  up  his  tank 
ard  tossed  it  off  at  a  draught.  "  Tastes  like 
it,  too,  by  Jove!"  he  said.  "Old  man,  out  of 
what  fruits  in  this  bleak  country  dost  thou 
conjure  such  a  drink?" 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    59 

Victor  smiled.  Praise  of  the  cider  of  the 
Golden  Pear  went  to  his  heart  of  hearts. 
"Monsieur  has  been  in  Calvados,"  he  said. 
"It  is  kind  of  him  then  to  praise  this  poor 
drink  of  mine,  which  would  be  but  scorned 
there.  There  is  not  a  warm  enough  sunshine 
to  ripen  our  pears  here  to  their  best,  and  the 
variety  is  not  the  same  ;  but  such  as  they 
are,  I  have  an  orchard  of  twenty  trees,  and 
it  is  by  reason  of  them  that  the  inn  has  its 
name." 

Willan  was  not  listening  to  this  conversa 
tion.  He  held  his  fork,  with  a  bit  of  untasted 
pigeon  on  it,  uplifted  in  one  hand  ;  with  the 
other  he  drummed  nervously  on  the  table. 
His  eyes  were  riveted  on  Victorine,  who  stood 
behind  the  old  man's  chair,  her  soft  black 
eyes  glancing  quietly  from  one  thing  to  another 
on  the  table  to  see  if  all  were  right.  Willan's 
gaze  did  not  escape  the  keen  eyes  of  Victor- 
ine's  grandfather.  Chuckling  inwardly,  he 
assumed  an  expression  of  great  anxiety,  and 
coming  closer  to  Willan's  chair  said  in  a  dep 
recating  tone,  — 

"  Are  not  the  pigeons  done  to  your  liking, 
sir  ?  You  do  not  eat." 


60  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

Willan  started,  dropped  his  fork,  then 
hastily  took  it  up  again. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "  that  they  are  ;  done 
to  a  turn."  And  he  fell  to  eating  again.  But 
do  what  he  would,  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
off  the  face  of  the  girl.  If  she  moved,  his  gaze 
followed  her  about  the  room,  as  straight  as  a 
steel  follows  on  after  a  magnet ;  and  when  she 
stood  still,  he  cast  furtive  glances  that  way 
each  minute.  In  very  truth,  he  might  well 
be  forgiven  for  so  doing.  Not  often  does  it 
fall  to  the  lot  of  men  to  see  a  more  bewitch 
ing  face  than  the  face  of  Victorine  Dubois. 
Many  a  woman  might  be  found  fairer  and  of 
a  nobler  cast  of  feature  ;  but  in  the  counte 
nance  of  Victorine  Dubois  was  an  unaccount 
able  charm  wellnigh  independent  of  feature, 
of  complexion,  of  all  which  goes  to  the  or 
dinary  summing  up  of  a  woman's  beauty. 
There  was  in  the  glance  of  her  eye  a  some 
thing,  I  know  not  what,  which  no  man  living 
could  wholly  resist.  It  was  at  once  defiant 
and  alluring,  tender  and  mocking,  artless  and 
mischievous.  No  man  could  make  it  out  ;  no 
man  might  see  it  twice  alike  in  the  space  of 
an  hour.  No  more  was  the  girl  herself  twice 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    6 1 

alike  in  an  hour,  or  a  day,  for  that  matter. 
She  was  far  more  like  some  frolicsome  crea 
ture  of  the  woods  than  like  a  mortal  woman. 
The  quality  of  wildness  which  Willan  had  felt 
in  her  voice  was  in  her  nature.  Neither  her 
grandfather  nor  her  mother  had  in  the  least 
comprehended  her  during  the  few  months  she 
had  lived  with  them.  A  certain  gentleness 
of  nature,  which  was  far  more  physical  than 
mental,  far  more  an  idle  nonchalance  than 
recognition  of  relations  to  others,  had  blinded 
them  to  her  real  capaciousness  and  selfish 
ness.  They  rarely  interfered  with  her,  or 
observed  her  with  any  discrimination.  Their 
love  was  content  with  her  surface  of  good  hu 
mor,  gayety,  and  beauty  ;  she  was  an  ever- 
present  delight  and  pride  to  them  both,  and 
that  she  might  only  partially  reciprocate  this 
fondness  never  crossed  their  minds.  They 
did  not  realize  that  during  all  these  eighteen 
years  that  they  had  been  caring,  planning,  and 
plotting  for  her  their  names  had  represented 
nothing  in  her  mind  except  unseen,  unknown 
relatives  to  whom  she  was  indebted  for  sup 
port,  but  to  whom  she  also  owed  what  she 
hated  and  rebelled  against,  —  her  imprison- 


62  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

ment  in  the  convent.  Why  should  she  love 
them  ?  Blood  tells,  however  ;  and  when  Vic- 
torine  found  herself  free,  and  face  to  face  with 
the  grandfather  of  whom  she  had  so  long 
heard  and  only  once  seen,  and  the  Aunt  Jeanne 
who  had  been  described  to  her  as  the  loving 
benefactress  of  her  youth,  she  had  a  new  and 
affectionate  sentiment  towards  them.  But 
she  would  at  any  minute  have  calmly  sacri 
ficed  them  both  for  the  furtherance  of  her 
own  interests  ;  and  the  thoughts  she  was 
thinking  while  Willan  Blaycke  gazed  at  her 
so  ardently  this  night  were  precisely  as 
follows  :  — 

"  If  I  could  only  have  a  good  chance  at  him, 
I  could  make  him  marry  me.  I  see  it  in  his 
face.  I  suppose  I  'd  never  see  Aunt  Jeanne 
again,  or  grandfather  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  I  'd 
play  my  cards  better  than  Aunt  Jeanne  did,  I 
know  that  much.  Let  me  once  get  to  be 
mistress  of  that  stone  house  — "  And  the 
color  grew  deeper  and  deeper  on  Victorine's 
cheeks  in  the  excitement  of  these  reflections. 

"  Poor  girl !  "  Willan  Blaycke  was  thinking. 
"I  must  not  gaze  at  her  so  constantly.  The 
color  in  her  cheeks  betrays  that  I  distress 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    63 

her."  And  the  honest  gentleman  tried  his 
best  to  look  away  and  bear  good  part  in  con 
versation  with  his  friend.  It  was  a  doubly 
good  stroke  on  the  part  of  the  wily  Victorine 
to  take  her  place  behind  the  elder  man's 
chair.  It  looked  like  a  proper  and  modest 
preference  on  her  part  for  age ;  and  it  kept 
her  out  of  the  old  man's  sight,  and  in  the  di 
rect  range  of  Willan's  eyes  as  he  conversed 
with  his  friend.  When  she  had  occasion  to 
hand  anything  to  Willan  she  did  so  with  an 
apparent  shyness  which  was  captivating;  and 
the  tone  of  voice  in  which  she  spoke  to  him 
was  low  and  timid. 

Old  Victor  could  hardly  contain  himself. 
He  went  back  and  forth  between  the  dining- 
room  and  kitchen  far  oftener  than  was  nec 
essary,  that  he  might  have  the  pleasure  of 
saying  to  Jeanne  :  "  It  works  !  it  works  !  He 
doth  gaze  the  eyes  out  of  his  head  at  her.  The 
girl  could  not  do  better.  She  hath  affected 
the  very  thing  which  will  snare  him  the 
quickest." 

"  Oh  no,  father  !  Thou  mistakest  Victor 
ine.  She  hath  no  plan  of  snaring  him  ;  it 
was  with  much  ado  I  got  her  to  consent  to 


64  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

serve  him  at  all.     It  was  but  for  my  sake  she 
did  it." 

Victor  stared  at  Jeanne  when  she  said  this. 
"  Thou  hast  not  told  her,  then  ? ';  he  said. 

44  Nay,  that  would  have  spoiled  all ;  if  the 
girl  herself  had  it  in  her  head,  he  would  have 
seen  it." 

Victor  walked  slowly  back  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  took  further  and  closer  observations 
of  Mademoiselle  Victorine's  behavior  and  ex 
pressions.  When  he  went  next  to  the  kitchen 
he  clapped  Jeanne  on  the  shoulder,  and  said 
with  a  laugh  :  "  'Tis  a  wise  mother  knows  her 
own  child.  If  that  girl  in  yonder  be  not  bent  on 
turning  the  head  of  Willan  Blaycke  before  she 
sleeps  to-night,  may  the  devil  fly  away  with 
me ! " 

"  Well,  likely  he  may,  if  thou  prove  not  too 
heavy  a  load,"  retorted  the  filial  Jeanne.  44 1 
tell  thee  the  girl's  heart  is  full  of  anger  against 
Willan  Blaycke.  She  is  but  doing  my  bidding. 
I  charged  her  to  see  to  it  that  he  was  pleased, 
that  he  should  go  away  our  friend." 

"And  so  he  will  go,"  replied  Victor,  dryly  ; 
"  but  not  for  thy  bidding  or  mine.  The  man 
is  that  far  pleased  already  that  he  shifteth 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   65 

as  if  the  very  chair  were  hot  beneath  him. 
A  most  dutiful  niece  thou  hast,  Mistress 
Jeanne  ! " 

When  supper  was  over  Willan  Blaycke 
walked  hastily  out  of  the  house.  He  wanted 
to  be  alone.  The  clouds  had  broken  away, 
and  the  full  moon  shone  out  gloriously.  The 
great  pear-tree  looked  like  a  tree  wrapped  in 
cloud,  its  blossoms  were  so  thick  and  white. 
Willan  paced  back  and  forth  beneath  it,  where 
he  had  lain  sleeping  before  supper.  He 
looked  toward  the  window  from  whence  he 
had  heard  the  singing  voice.  "  It  must  have 
been  she,"  he  said.  "  How  shall  I  bring  it  to 
pass  to  see  her  again?  for  that  I  will  and 
must."  He  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
in.  All  was  dark.  As  he  turned  away  the 
door  at  the  farther  end  opened,  and  a  ray  of 
light  flashing  in  from  the  hall  beyond  showed 
•Victorine  bearing  in  her  hand  the  jug  of 
cider.  She  had  made  this  excuse  to  go  to 
the  storeroom  again,  having  observed  that 
Willan  had  left  the  house. 

"  He  might  seek  me  again  there,"  thought 
she. 

Willan  heard  the  sound,  turned  back,  and 
5 


66  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

bounding  to  the  window  exclaimed,   "  Was  it 
thou  who  sang  ?  " 

Victorine  affected  not  to  hear.  Setting 
down  her  jug,  she  came  close  to  the  window 
and  said  respectfully :  "  Didst  thou  call  ? 
What  can  I  fetch,  sir?" 

Willan  Blaycke  leaned  both  his  arms  on 
the  window-sill,  and  looking  into  the  eyes  of 
Victorine  Dubois  replied :  "  Marry,  girl,  thou 
hast  already  fetched  me  to  such  a  pass  that 
thy  voice  rings  in  my  ears.  I  asked  thee  if 
it  were  thou  who  sang  ?  " 

Retreating  from  the  window  a  step  or  two, 
Victorine  said  sorrowfully :  "  I  did  not  think 
that  thou  hadst  the  face  of  one  who  would 
jest  lightly  with  maidens."  And  she  made  as 
if  she  would  go  away. 

"  Pardon,  pardon  !  "  cried  Willan.  "  I  am 
not  jesting ;  I  implore  thee,  think  it  not.  I 
did  sleep  under  this  tree  before  supper,  and 
heard  such  singing  !  I  had  thought  it  a  bird 
over  my  head  except  that  the  song  had  words. 
I  know  it  was  thou.  Be  not  angry.  Why 
shouldst  thou  ?  Where  didst  thou  learn  those 
wild  songs  ? " 

"  From    Sister    Clarice,    in    the    convent, " 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    67 

answered  Victorine.  "  It  is  only  last  Easter 
that  my  grandfather  fetched  me  from  the  con 
vent  to  live  with  him  and  my  aunt  Jeanne." 

"Thy  aunt  Jeanne,"  said  Willan,  slowly. 
"  Is  she  thy  aunt  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Victorine,  sadly ;  "  she  that 
was  thy  father's  wife,  whom  thou  wilt  not 
have  in  thy  house." 

This  was  a  bold  stroke  on  Victorine's  part. 
To  tell  truth,  she  had  had  no  idea  one  moment 
before  of  saying  any  such  thing  ;  but  a  sudden 
emotion  of  resentment  got  the  better  of  her, 
and  the  words  were  uttered  before  she  knew  it. 

Willan  was  angry.  "  All  alike,"  he  thought 
to  himself,  — "  a  bad  lot.  I  dare  say  the 
woman  has  set  the  girl  here  for  nothing  else 
than  to  try  to  play  on  my  feelings."  And  it 
was  in  a  very  cold  tone  that  he  replied  to 
Victorine,  — 

"Thou  art  not  able  to  judge  of  such  mat 
ters  at  thy  age.  Thy  aunt  is  better  here  than 
there.  Thou  knowest,"  he  added  in  a  gen 
tler  tone,  seeing  Victorine's  great  black  eyes 
swimming  in  sudden  tears,  "  that  she  was 
never  as  mother  to  me.  I  had  never  seen 
her  till  I  returned  a  man  grown." 


68  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

Victorine  was  sobbing  now.  "  Oh,"  she 
cried,  "  what  ill  luck  is  mine !  I  have  angered 
thee ;  and  my  aunt  did  especially  charge  me 
that  I  was  to  treat  thee  well.  She  doth  never 
speak  an  ill  word  of  thee,  sir,  never  !  Do  not 
thou  charge  my  hasty  words  to  her."  And 
Victorine  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  looked 
up  in  Willan  Blaycke's  face  with  a  look  which 
she  had  had  good  reason  to  know  was  well 
calculated  to  move  a  man's  heart. 

Willan  Blaycke  had  led  a  singularly  pure 
life.  He  was  of  a  reticent  and  partly  phleg 
matic  nature ;  though  he  looked  so  like  his 
father,  he  resembled  him  little  in  tempera 
ment.  This  calmness  of  nature,  added  to  a 
deep-seated  pride,  had  stood  him  in  stead  of 
firmly  rooted  principles  of  virtue,  and  had 
carried  him  safe  through  all  the  temptations 
of  his  unprotected  and  lonely  youth.  He 
had  the  air  and  bearing,  and  had  had  in  most 
things  the  experience,  of  a  man  of  the  world  ; 
and  yet  he  was  as  ignorant  of  the  wily  ways 
of  a  wily  woman  as  if  he  had  never  been  out 
of  the  wilderness.  Victorine's  tears  smote  on 
him  poignantly. 

"  Thou  poor  child  ! "  he  said  most  kindly, 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   69 

"do  not  weep.  Thou  hast  done  no  harm.  I 
bear  no  ill  will  to  thine  aunt,  and  never  did  ; 
and  if  I  had,  thou  wouldst  have  disarmed  it. 
This  inn  seems  to  me  no  place  for  a  young 
maiden  like  thee." 

Victorine  glanced  cautiously  around  her, 
and  whispered  :  "  It  were  ungrateful  in  me  to 
say  as  much  ;  but  oh,  sir,  if  thou  didst  but 
know  how  I  wish  myself  back  in  the  convent ! 
I  like  not  the  ways  of  this  place ;  and  I  fear 
so  much  the  men  who  are  often  here.  When 
thou  didst  speak  at  first  I  did  think  thou  wert 
like  them ;  but  now  I  perceive  that  thou  art 
quite  different.  Thou  seemest  to  me  like  the 
men  of  whom  Sister  Clarice  did  tell  me." 
Victorine  stopped,  called  up  a  blush  to  her 
cheeks,  and  said :  "  But  I  must  not  stay  talking 
with  thee.  My  aunt  will  be  looking  for  me." 

"  Stay,"  said  Willan.  «  What  did  the  Sister 
Clarice  tell  thee  of  men  ?  I  thought  not  that 
nuns  conversed  on  such  matters." 

"  Oh !"  replied  Victorine,  innocently,  "  it  was 
different  with  the  Sister  Clarice.  She  was  a 
noble  lady  who  had  been  betrothed,  and  her 
betrothed  died  ;  and  it  was  because  there  were 
none  left  so  noble  and  so  good  as  he,  she  said, 


70  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

that  she  had  taken  the  veil  and  would  die 
in  the  convent.  She  did  talk  to  me  whole 
nights  about  this  young  lord  whom  she  was 
to  have  wed,  and  she  did  think  often  that  she 
saw  his  face  look  down  through  the  roof  of  the 
cell." 

Clever  Victorine !  She  had  invented  this 
tale  on  the  spur  of  the  instant.  She  could 
not  have  done  better  if  she  had  plotted  long 
to  devise  a  method  of  flattering  Willan  Blaycke. 
It  is  strange  how  like  inspiration  are  the  im 
pulses  of  artful  women  at  times.  It  would 
seem  wellnigh  certain  that  they  must  be 
prompted  by  malicious  fiends  wishing  to  lure 
men  on  to  destruction  in  the  surest  way. 

Victorine  had  talked  with  Willan  perhaps 
five  minutes.  In  that  space  of  time  she  had 
persuaded  him  of  four  things,  all  false,  — 
that  she  was  an  innocent,  guileless  girl ;  that 
she  had  been  seized  with  a  sudden  and  reveri 
ential  admiration  for  him ;  that  she  had  no 
greater  desire  in  life  than  to  be  back  again  in 
the  safe  shelter  of  the  convent ;  and  that  her 
aunt  Jeanne  had  never  said  an  ill-word  of  him. 

"  Victorine !  Victorine  ! "  called  a  sharp  loud 
voice,  —  the  voice  of  Jeanne,  —  who  would 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    71 

have  bitten  her  tongue  out  rather  than  have 
broken  in  on  this  interview,  if  she  had  only 
known.  "Victorine,  where  art  thou  loi 
tering  ? " 

"  Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  sir,  do  not  thou  tell 
my  grandfather  that  I  have  talked  with  thee  ! " 
cried  Victorine,  in  feigned  terror.  "  Here  I 
am,  aunt;  I  will  be  there  in  one  second," 
she  cried  aloud,  and  ran  hastily  down  the 
storeroom.  At  the  door  she  stopped,  hesi 
tated,  turned  back,  and  going  towards  the 
window  said  wistfully:  "Thou  hast  never  been 
here  before  all  these  three  months.  I  sup 
pose  thou  travellest  this  way  very  seldom." 

The  full  moon  shone  on  Victorine' s  face  as 
she  said  this.  Her  expression  was  like  that  of 
a  wistful  little  child.  Willan  Blaycke  did  not 
quite  know  what  he  was  doing.  He  reached 
his  hand  across  the  window-sill  towards  Vic 
torine  ;  she  did  not  extend  hers.  "  I  will  come 
again  sooner,"  he  said.  "  Wilt  thou  not  shake 
hands?" 

Victorine  advanced,  hesitated,  advanced 
again  ;  it  was  inimitably  done.  "  The  next 
time,  if  I  know  thee  better,  I  might  dare," 
she  whispered,  and  fled  like  a  deer. 


BETWEEN  WHILES. 


"  Where  hast  thou  been  ? "  said  Jeanne,  an 
grily.  "  The  supper  dishes  are  yet  all  to  wash." 

Victorine  danced  gayly  around  the  kitchen 
floor.  "  Talking  with  the  son  of  thy  hus 
band,"  she  said.  "  He  seems  to  me  much 
cleverer  than  a  magpie." 

Jeanne  burst  out  laughing.  "  Thou  witch  ! " 
she  said,  secretly  well  pleased.  "  But  where 
didst  thou  fall  upon  him  ?  Thou  hast  not 
been  in  the  bar-room  ? " 

"  Nay,  he  fell  upon  me,  the  rather,"  replied 
Victorine,  artlessly,  "as  I  was  resting  me  at 
the  window  of  the  long  storeroom.  He  heard 
me  singing,  and  came  there." 

"Did  he  praise  thy  voice?"  asked  Jeanne. 
"  He  is  a  brave  singer  himself." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  said  Victorine,  eagerly.  "  He 
did  not  tell  me  that.  He  said  my  voice  was 
like  the  voice  of  a  wild  bird.  And  there  be 
birds  and  birds  again,  I  was  minded  to  tell 
him,  and  not  all  birds  make  music  ;  but  he 
seemed  to  me  not  one  to  take  jests  readily." 

"  So,"  said  Jeanne ;  "  that  he  is  not.  Leaves 
he  early  in  the  morning  ? " 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  Victorine.  "  He  did 
not  tell  me,  but  I  heard  the  elder  man  say  to 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    73 

Benoit  to  have  the  horses  ready  at  earliest 
light." 

"Thou  must  serve  them  again  in  the  morn 
ing,"  said  Jeanne.  "  It  will  be  but  the  once 
more." 

"Nay,"  answered  Victorine,  "I  will  not." 

Something  in  the  girl's  tone  arrested  her 
aunt's  attention.  "And  why?"  she  said 
sharply,  looking  scrutinizingly  at  her. 

Victorine  returned  the  gaze  with  one  as 
steady.  It  was  as  well,  she  thought,  that 
there  should  be  an  understanding  between 
her  aunt  and  herself  soon  as  late. 

"  Because  he  will  come  again  the  sooner, 
Aunt  Jeanne,  if  he  sees  me  no  more  after  to 
night."  And  Victorine  gave  a  little  mocking 
nod  with  her  head,  turned  towards  the  dresser 
piled  high  with  dishes,  and  began  to  make  a 
great  clatter  washing  them. 

Jeanne  was  silent.  She  did  not  know  how 
to  take  this. 

Victorine  glanced  up  at  her  mischievously, 
and  laughed  aloud.  "  Better  a  grape  for  me 
than  two  figs  for  thee.  Dost  know  the  old 
proverb,  Aunt  Jeanne  ?  Thou  hadst  thy  figs  ; 
I  will  e'en  pluck  the  grape." 


74  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

"Bah,  child!  thou  talkest  wildly,"  said 
Jeanne ;  "  I  know  not  what  thou  'rt  at." 

But  she  did  know  very  well ;  only  she  did 
not  choose  to  seem  to  understand.  However, 
as  she  thought  matters  over  later  in  the  even 
ing,  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room,  one  thing 
was  clear  to  her,  and  that  was  that  it  would 
probably  be  safe  to  trust  Mademoiselle  Vic- 
torine  to  row  her  own  boat ;  and  Jeanne  said 
as  much  to  her  father  when  he  inquired  of 
her  how  matters  had  sped. 

In  spite  of  Victorine's  refusal  to  serve  at 
the  breakfast,  she  had  not  the  least  "idea  of 
letting  Willan  go  away  in  the  morning  with 
out  being  reminded  of  her  presence.  She  was 
up  before  light,  dressed  in  a  pretty  pink  and 
white  flowered  gown,  which  set  off  her  black 
hair  and  eyes  well,  and  made  her  look  as  if 
she  were  related  to  an  apple-blossom.  She 
watched  and  listened  till  she  heard  the  sound 
of  voices  and  the  horses'  feet  in  the  courtyard 
below ;  then  throwing  open  her  casement  she 
leaned  out  and  began  to  water  her  flowers  on 
the  stairway  roof.  At  the  first  sound  Willan 
Blaycke  looked  up  and  saw  her.  It  was  as 
pretty  a  picture  as  a  man  need  wish  to  see, 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    ?$ 

and  Willan  gazed  his  fill  at  it.  The  window 
was  so  high  up  in  the  air  that  the  girl  might 
well  be  supposed  not  to  see  anything  which 
was  going  on  in  the  courtyard;  indeed,  she 
never  once  looked  that  way,  but  went  on 
daintily  watering  plant  after  plant,  picking  off 
dead  leaves,  crumpling  them  up  in  her  fingers 
and  throwing  them  down  as  if  she  were  alone 
in  the  place  ;  singing,  too,  softly  in  a  low  tone 
snatches  of  a  song,  the  words  of  which  went 
floating  away  tantalizingly  over  Willan's  head, 
in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  hear. 

It  was  a  great  tribute  to  Victorine's  powers 
as  an  actress  that  it  never  once  crossed  Willan's 
mind  that  she  could  possibly  know  he  was 
looking  at  her  all  this  time.  It  was  equally  a 
token  of  another  man's  estimate  of  her,  that 
when  old  Benoit,  hearing  the  singing,  looked 
up  and  saw  her  watering  her  flowers  at  this 
unexampled  hour,  he  said  under  his  breath, 
"  Diable ! "  and  then  glancing  at  the  face  of 
Willan,  who  stood  gazing  up  at  the  window 
utterly  unconscious  of  the  old  ostler's  presence, 
said  "  Diable ! "  again,  but  this  time  with  a 
broad  and  amused  smile. 


76  BETWEEN-   WHILES. 


III. 

The  fountain  leaps  as  if  its  nearest  goal 
Were  sky,  and  shines  as  if  its  life  were  light. 
No  crystal  prism  flashes  on  our  sight 
Such  radiant  splendor  of  the  rainbow's  whole 
Of  color.     Who  would  dream  the  fountain  stole 
Its  tints,  and  if  the  sun  no  more  were  bright 
Would  instant  fade  to  its  own  pallid  white  ? 
Who  dream  that  never  higher  than  the  dole 
Of  its  own  source,  its  stream  may  rise  ? 

Thus  we 

See  often  hearts  of  men  that  by  love's  glow 
Are  sudden  lighted,  lifted  till  they  show 
All  semblances  of  true  nobility ; 
The  passion  spent,  they  tire  of  purity, 
And  sink  again  to  their  own  levels  low  ! 

THE  next  time  Willan  Blaycke  came  to  the 
Golden  Pear  he  did  not  see  Victorine.  This 
was  by  no  device  of  hers,  though  if  she  had 
considered  beforehand  she  could  not  better 
have  helped  on  the  impression  she  had  made 
on  him  than  by  letting  him  go  away  disap 
pointed,  having  come  hoping  to  see  her.  She 
was  away  on  a  visit  at  the  home  of  Pierre 
Gaspard  the  miller,  whose  eldest  daughter 
Annette  was  Victorine's  one  friend  in  the 
parish.  There  was  an  eldest  son,  also,  Pierre 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    77 

second,  on  whom  Mademoiselle  Victorine  had 
cast  observant  glances,  and  had  already 
thought  to  herself  that  "  if  nothing  else  turned 
Up  —  but  there  was  time  enough  yet."  Not 
so  thought  Pierre,  who  was  madly  in  love 
with  Victorine,  and  was  so  put  about  by  her 
cold  and  capricious  ways  with  him  that  he 
was  fast  coming  to  be  good  for  nothing  in 
the  mill  or  on  the  farm.  But  he  is  of  no 
consequence  in  this  account  of  the  career  of 
Mademoiselle,  only  this,  —  that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  him  she  had  not  probably  been  away 
from  the  Golden  Pear  on  the  occasion  of  Wil- 
lan  Blaycke's  second  visit.  Pierre  had  not 
shown  himself  at  the  inn  for  some  weeks, 
and  Victorine  was  uneasy  about  him.  Spite 
of  her  plans  about  a  much  finer  bird  in  the 
bush,  she  was  by  no  means  minded  to  lose 
the  bird  she  had  in  hand.  She  was  too  clear 
sighted  a  young  lady  not  to  perceive  that  it 
would  be  no  bad  thing  to  be  ultimately  Mis 
tress  Gaspard  of  the  mill, —  no  bad  thing  if 
she  could  not  do  better,  of  which  she  was  as 
yet  far  from  sure.  So  she  had  inveigled  her 
aunt  into  taking  the  notion  into  her  head  that 
she  needed  change,  and  the  two  had  ridden 


7 8  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

over  to  Gaspard's  for  a  three  days'  visit,  the 
very  day  before  Willan  arrived. 

"  I  warrant  me  he  was  set  aback  when  I 
did  tell  him  as  he  alighted  that  I  feared  me 
he  would  not  be  well  served  just  at  present, 
as  there  was  no  woman  about  the  house,"  said 
Victor,  chuckling  as  he  told  Jeanne  the  story. 
"  He  did  give  a  little  start,  —  not  so  little  but 
that  I  saw  it  well,  though  he  fetched  himself 
up  with  his  pride  in  a  trice,  and  said  loftily  : 
'  I  have  no  doubt  all  will  be  sufficient ;  it  is 
but  a  bite  of  supper  and  a  bed  that  I  re 
quire.  I  must  go  on  at  daybreak.'  But  Be- 
noit  saw  him  all  the  evening  pacing  back 
and  forth  under  the  pear-tree,  and  many 
times  looking  up  at  the  shut  casement  of 
the  window  where  he  had  seen  Victorine 
standing  on  the  morning  when  he  was  last 
here." 

"  Did  he  ask  aught  about  her  ? "  said 
Jeanne. 

"  Bah ! "  said  Victor,  contemptuously. 
"Dost  take  him  for  a  fool?  He  will  be 
farther  gone  than  he  is  yet,  ere  he  will  let 
either  thee  or  me  see  that  the  girl  is  aught 
to  him." 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    79 

"  I  wish  he  had  found  her  here,"  said 
Jeanne.  "  It  was  an  ill  bit  of  luck  that  took 
her  away  ;  and  that  Pierre,  he  is  like  to  go 
mad  about  her,  since  these  three  days  under 
one  roof.  I  knew  not  he  was  so  daft,  or  I 
had  not  taken  her  there." 

"  She  were  well  wed  to  Pierre  Gaspard," 
said  Victor  ;  "  mated  with  one's  own  degree 
is  best  mated,  after  all.  What  shall  we  say  if 
the  lad  come  asking  her  hand  ?  He  will  not 
ask  twice,  I  can  tell  you  that  of  a  Gaspard." 

"  Trust  the  girl  to  keep  him  from  asking 
till  she  be  ready  to  say  him  yea  or  nay,"  re 
plied  Jeanne.  "I  know  not  wherever  the 
child  hath  learnt  such  ways  with  men; 
surely  in  the  convent  she  saw  none  but 
priests." 

"And  are  not  priests  men?"  sneered  Vic 
tor,  with  an  evil  laugh.  "  Faith,  and  I  think 
there  is  nought  which  other  men  teach  which 
they  do  not  teach  better  ! " 

"  Fie,  father !  thou  shouldst  not  speak  ill 
of  the  clergy ;  it  is  bad  luck,"  said  Jeanne. 
Jeanne  was  far  honester  of  nature  than  either 
her  father  or  her  child  ;  she  was  not  entirely 
without  reverence,  and  as  far  as  she  could, 


80  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

without  too  much  inconvenience,  kept  good 
faith  with  her  religion. 

When  Victorine  heard  that  Willan  Blaycke 
had  been  at  the  inn  in  their  absence,  she 
shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders,  and  said, 
laughingly,  "  Eh,  but  that  is  good  !  " 

"  Why  sayest  thou  so  ?  "  replied  Jeanne.  "  I 
say  it  is  ill." 

"  And  I  say  it  is  good,"  retorted  Victorine  ; 
and  not  another  word  could  Jeanne  get  out 
of  her  on  the  matter. 

Victorine  was  right.  As  Willan  Blaycke 
rode  away  from  the  Golden  Pear,  he  was  so 
vexed  with  the  unexpected  disappointment 
that  he  was  in  a  mood  fit  to  do  some  des 
perate  thing.  He  had  tried  with  all  his 
might  to  put  Victorine's  face  and  voice  and 
sweet  little  form  out  of  his  thoughts,  but  it 
was  beyond  his  power.  She  haunted  him  by 
day  and  by  night,  —  worse  by  night  than  by 
day, —  for  he  dreamed  continually  of  standing 
just  the  other  side  of  a  window-sill  across 
which  Victorine  reached  snowy  little  hands 
and  laid  them  in  his,  and  just  as  he  was 
about  to  grasp  them  the  vision  faded,  and 
he  waked  up  to  find  himself  alone.  Willan 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.  8 1 

Blaycke  had  never  loved  any  woman.  If  he 
had,  — if  he  had  had  even  the  least  experience 
in  the  way  of  passionate  fancies,  he  could 
have  rated  this  impression  which  Victorine 
had  produced  on  him  for  what  it  was  worth 
and  no  more,  and  taking  counsel  of  his  pride 
have  waited  till  the  discomfort  of  it  should 
have  passed  away.  But  he  knew  no  better 
than  to  suppose  that  because  it  was  so  keen, 
so  haunting,  it  must  last  forever.  He  was 
almost  appalled  at  the  condition  in  which  he 
found  himself.  It  more  than  equalled  all  the 
descriptions  which  he  had  read  of  unquench 
able  love.  He  could  not  eat ;  he  could  not 
occupy  himself  with  any  affairs :  all  business 
was  tedious  to  him,  and  all  society  irksome. 
He  lay  awake  long  hours,  seeing  the  arch  black 
eyes  and  rosy  cheeks  and  piquant  little  mouth ; 
worn  out  by  restlessness,  he  slept,  only  to  see 
'the  eyes  and  cheeks  and  mouth  more  vividly. 
It  was  all  to  no  purpose  that  he  reasoned  with 
himself,  —  that  he  asked  himself  sternly  a 
hundred  times  a  day,  — 

"  Wilt    thou   take    the    granddaughter    of 
Victor  Dubois  to  be  the  mother  of  thy  chil 
dren  ?      Is  it   not   enough    that    thy    father 
6 


82  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

disgraced  his  name  for  that  blood  ?  Wilt  thou 
do  likewise  ? " 

The  only  answer  which  came  to  all  these 
questions  was  Victorine's  soft  whisper  :  "  Oh, 
if  thou  didst  but  know,  sir,  how  I  wish  my 
self  safe  back  in  the  convent !  "  and,  "  Thou 
seemest  to  me  like  the  men  of  whom  Sister 
Clarice  did  tell  me." 

"  Poor  little  girl ! "  he  said  ;  "  she  is  of 
their  blood,  but  not  of  their  sort.  Her 
mother  was  doubtless  a  good  and  pure  wo 
man,  even  though  she  had  not  good  birth  or 
breeding  ;  and  this  child  hath  had  good  training 
from  the  Sisters  in  the  convent.  She  is  of  a 
most  ladylike  bearing,  and  has  a  fine  sense  of 
all  which  is  proper  and  becoming,  else  would 
she  not  so  dislike  the  ways  of  an  inn,  and  have 
such  fear  of  the  men  that  gaze  on  her  there." 

So  touching  is  the  blindness  of  those 
blinded  by  love !  It  is  enough  to  make  one 
weep  sometimes  to  see  it,  —  to  see,  as  in  this 
instance  of  Willan  Blaycke,  an  upright,  mod 
est,  and  honest  gentleman  creating  out  of  the 
very  virtues  of  his  own  nature  the  being 
whom  he  will  worship,  and  then  clothing  this 
ideal  with  a  bit  of  common  clay,  of  immodest 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    83 

and  ill-behaved  flesh,  which  he  hath  found 
ready-made  to  his  hand,  and  full  of  the  snare 
of  good  looks. 

When  Willan  Blaycke  rode  away  this  time 
from  the  Golden  Pear,  he  was,  as  we  say,  in  a 
mood  ready  to  do  some  desperate  thing,  he 
was  so  vexed  and  disappointed.  What  he  did 
do,  proved  it ;  he  turned  his  horse  and  rode 
straight  for  Gaspard's  mill.  The  artful  Be- 
noit  had  innocently  dropped  the  remark,  as 
he  was  holding  the  stirrup  for  Willan  to 
mount,  that  Mistress  Jeanne  and  her  niece 
were  at  Pierre  Gaspard's ;  that  for  his  part 
he  wished  them  back,  —  there  was  no  luck 
about  a  house  without  a  woman  in  it. 

Willan  Blaycke  made  some  indifferent  re 
ply,  as  if  all  that  were  nothing  to  him,  and 
galloped  off.  But  before  he  had  gone  five 
miles  Benoit's  leaven  worked,  and  he  turned 
into  a  short-cut  lane  he  knew  which  led  to 
the  mill.  He  did  not  stop  to  ask  himself 
what  he  should  do  there ;  he  simply  galloped 
on  towards  Victorine.  It  was  only  a  couple 
of  leagues  to  the  mill,  and  its  old  tower  and 
wheel  were  in  sight  before  he  thought  of  its 
being  near.  Then  he  began  to  consider  what 


84  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

errand  he  could  make  ;  none  occurred  to  him. 
He  reined  his  horse  up  to  a  slow  walk,  and 
fell  into  a  reverie,  —  so  deep  a  one  that  he 
did  not  see  what  he  might  have  seen  had  he 
looked  attentively  into  a  copse  of  poplars  on 
a  high  bank  close  to  his  road,  —  two  young 
girls  sitting  on  the  ground  peeling  slender 
willow  stems  for  baskets.  It  was  Annette 
Gaspard  and  Victorine  ;  and  at  the  sound  of 
a  horse's  feet  they  both  leaned  forward  and 
looked  down  into  the  road. 

"  Oh,  see,  Victorine  !  "  Annette  cried  ;  "  a 
brave  rider  goes  there.  Who  can  he  be  ?  I 
wonder  if  he  goes  to  the  mill  ?  Perhaps  my 
father  will  keep  him  to  dinner." 

At  the  first  glance  Victorine  recognized 
Willan  Blaycke,  but  she  gave  no  sign  to  her 
friend  that  she  knew  him. 

"  He  sitteth  his  horse  like  one  asleep,"  she 
said,  "  or  in  a  dream.  I  call  him  not  a 
brave  rider.  He  hath  forgotten  something," 
she  added  ;  "  see,  he  is  turning  about !  "  And 
with  keen  disappointment  the  girls  saw  the 
horseman  wheel  suddenly,  and  gallop  back  on 
the  road  he  had  come.  At  the  last  moment, 
by  a  mighty  effort,  Willan  had  wrenched  his 


THE  INN  OF^THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    85 

will  to  the  decision  that  he  would  not  seek 
Victorine  at  the  mill. 

And  this  was  why,  when  her  aunt  told  her 
that  he  had  been  at  the  inn  during  their  ab 
sence,  Victorine  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
said  with  so  pleased  a  laugh,  "  Eh  !  that  is 
good."  She  understood  by  a  lightning  intui 
tion  all  which  had  happened,  —  that  he  had 
ridden  towards  the  mill  seeking  her,  and  had 
changed  his  mind  at  the  last,  and  gone  away. 
But  she  kept  her  own  counsel,  told  nobody 
that  she  had  seen  him,  and  said  in  her 
mischievous  heart,  "  He  will  be  back  before 
long." 

And  so  he  was  ;  but  not  even  Victorine, 
with  all  her  confidence  in  the  strength  of  the 
hold  she  had  so  suddenly  acquired  on  him, 
could  have  imagined  how  soon  and  with  what 
purpose  he  would  return.  On  the  evening  of 
the  sixth  day,  just  at  sunset,  he  appeared, 
walking  with  his  saddle-bags  on  his  shoulders 
and  leading  his  horse.  The  beast  limped 
badly,  and  had  evidently  got  a  sore  hurt. 
Old  Benoit  was  standing  in  the  arched  en 
trance  of  the  courtyard  as  they  approached. 
"  Marry,  but  that  beast  is  in  a  bad  way  ! "  he 


86  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

ex-claimed,  and  went  to  meet  them.  Benoit 
loved  a  horse;  and  Willan  Blaycke's  black 
stallion  was  a  horse  to  which  any  man's  heart 
might  well  go  out,  so  knowing,  docile, 
proud,  and  swift  was  the  creature,  and  withal 
most  beautifully  made.  The  poor  thing  went 
haltingly  enough  now,  and  every  few  min 
utes  stopped  and  looked  around  piteously  into 
his  master's  face. 

"  And  the  man  doth  look  as  distressed  as 
the  beast,"  thought  Benoit,  as  he  drew  near  ; 
"  it  is  a  good  man  that  so  loves  an  animal." 
And  Benoit  warmed  toward  Willan  as  he  saw 
his  anxious  face. 

If  Benoit  had  only  known  !  No  wonder  Wil- 
lan's  face  was  sorrow-stricken  !  It  was  he 
himself  that  had  purposely  lamed  the  stallion, 
that  he  might  have  plain  and  reasonable  ex 
cuse  for  staying  at  the  Golden  Pear  some 
days.  He  had  not  meant  to  hurt  the  poor 
creature  so  much,  and  his  conscience  pricked 
him  horribly  at  every  step  the  horse  took. 
He  patted  him  on  his  neck,  spoke  kindly  to 
him,  and  did  all  in  his  power  to  atone  for  his 
cruelty.  That  all  was  very  little,  however, 
for  each  step  was  torture  to  the  beast ;  his 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    87 

fore  feet  were  nearly  bleeding.  This  was 
what  Willan  had  done:  the  day  before  he 
had  taken  off  two  of  the  horse's  shoes,  and 
then  galloped  fast  over  miles  of  rough  and 
stony  road.  The  horse  had  borne  himself 
gallantly,  and  shown  no  fatigue  till  nightfall, 
when  he  suddenly  went  lame,  and  had  grown 
worse  in  the  night,  so  that  Willan  had  come 
very  near  having  to  lie  by  at  an  inn  some 
leagues  to  the  north,  where  he  had  no  mind 
to  stay.  A  heavy  price  he  was  paying  for  the 
delight  of  looking  on  Victorine's  face,  he  be 
gan  to  think,  as  he  toiled  along  on  foot,  mile 
after  mile,  the  saddle-bags  on  his  shoulders, 
and  the  hot  sun  beating  down  on  his  head  ; 
but  reach  the  Golden  Pear  that  day  he  would, 
and  he  did,  —  almost  as  footsore  as  the  stal 
lion.  Neither  master  nor  beast  was  wonted 
to  rough  ways. 

"  My  horse  is  sadly  lame,"  Willan  said  to 
Benoit  as  he  came  up.  "  He  cast  two  shoes 
yesterday,  and  I  was  forced  to  ride  on,  spite 
of  it,  for  there  was  no  blacksmith  on  the  road 
I  came.  I  fear  me  thou  canst  not  shoe  him 
to-night,  his  feet  have  grown  so  sore  !  " 

"  No,  nor   to-morrow  nor   the  day  after," 


88  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

cried  Benoit,  taking  up  the  inflamed  feet  and 
looking  at  them  closely.  "  It  was  a  sin,  sir, 
to  ride  such  a  creature  unshod ;  he  is  a  noble 
steed." 

"  Nay,  I  have  not  ridden  a  step  to-day,"  an 
swered  Willan,  "and  I  am  wellnigh  as  sore 
as  he.*  We  have  come  all  the  way  from  the 
north  boundary, — a  matter  of  some  six  leagues, 
I  think,  —  from  the  inn  of  Jean  Gauvois." 

"  But  he  is  a  farrier  himself!  "  cried  Benoit. 
"  How  let  he  the  beast  go  out  like  this  ? " 

"  It  was  I  forbade  him  to  touch  the  horse," 
replied  the  wily  Willan.  "  He  did  lame  a  good 
mare  for  me  once,  driving  a  nail  into  the  quick. 
I  thought  the  horse  would  be  better  to  walk 
this  far  and  get  thy  more  skilful  handling. 
There  is  not  a  man  in  this  country,  they  tell 
me,  can  shoe  a  horse  so  well  as  thou.  Dost 
thou  not  know  some  secret  of  healing,"  he 
continued,  "  by  which  thou  canst  harden  the 
feet,  so  that  they  will  be  fit  to  shoe  to 
morrow  ? " 

Benoit  shook  his  head.  "Thy  horse  hath 
been  too  tenderly  reared,"  he  said.  "  A  hurt 
goes  harder  with  him  than  with  our  horses. 
But  I  will  do  my  best,  sir.  I  doubt  not  it  will 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    89 

inconvenience  thee  much  to  wait  here  till  he 
be  well.  If  thou  couldst  content  thee  with  a 
beast  sorry  to  look  at,  but  like  the  wind  to 
go,  we  have  a  nag  would  carry  thee  along, 
and  thou  couldst  leave  the  stallion  till  thy 
return." 

"But  I  come  not  back  this  way,"  replied 
Willan,  strangely  ready  with  his  lies,  now  he 
had  once  undertaken  the  role  of  a  manoeuvres 
"  I  go  far  south,  even  down  to  the  harbors  of 
the  sound.  I  must  bide  the  beast's  time  now. 
He  hath  made  time  for  me  many  a  day,  and 
I  do  assure  you,  good  Benoit,  I  love  him  as 
if  he  were  my  brother." 

"  Ay,"  replied  the  ostler;  "so  thought  I  when 
I  saw  thee  bent  under  thy  saddle-bags  and 
leading  the  horse  by  the  rein.  It 's  an  evil 
man  likes  not  his  beast.  We  say  in  Nor 
mandy,  sir, — 

'  Evil  master  to  good  beast, 
Serve  him  ill  at  every  feast ! '  " 

"  So  he  deserves,"  replied  Willan,  heartily  ; 
and  in  his  heart  he  added,  "  I  hope  I  shall  not 
get  my  deserts." 

Benoit  led  the  poor  horse  away  toward  the 
stables,  and  Willan  entered  the  house.  No 


90  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

one  was  to  be  seen.  Benoit  had  forgotten  to 
tell  him  that  no  one  was  at  home  except  Vic- 
torine.  It  was  a  market-day  at  St.  Urban's ; 
and  Victor  and  Jeanne  had  gone  for  the 
day,  and  would  not  be  back  till  late  in  the 
evening. 

Willan  roamed  on  from  room  to  room, — 
through  the  bar-room,  the  living-room,  the 
kitchen ;  all  were  empty,  silent.  As  he  re 
traced  his  steps  he  stopped  for  a  second 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  which  led  from 
the  living-room  to  the  narrow  passage-way 
overhead. 

Victorine  was  in  her  aunt's  room,  and  heard 
the  steps.  "  Who  is  there?"  she  called. 
Willan  recognized  her  voice ;  he  considered 
a  second  what  he  should  reply. 

"  Benoit !  is  it  thou  ? "  Victorine  called 
again  impatiently ;  and  the  next  minute  she 
bounded  down  the  stairway,  crying,  "  Why 
dost  thou  terrify  me  so,  thou  bad  Benoit,  not 
answering  me  when  I — "  She  stopped,  face 
to  face  with  Willan  Blaycke,  and  gave  a  cry 
of  honest  surprise. 

"  Ah  !  but  is  it  really  thou  ?  "  she  said,  the 
rosy  color  mounting  all  over  her  face  as  she 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    91 

recollected  how  she  was  attired.  She  had 
been  asleep  all  the  warm  afternoon,  and  had 
on  only  a  white  petticoat  and  a  short  gown  of 
figured  stuff,  red  and  white.  Her  hair  was  fall 
ing  over  her  shoulders.  Willan's  heart  gave 
a  bound  as  he  looked  at  her.  Before  he  had 
fairly  seen  her,  she  had  turned  to  fly. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,  —  it  is  I,"  he  called  after  her. 
"Wilt  thou  not  come  back?" 

"  Nay,"  answered  Victorine,  from  the  upper 
stair ;  "  that  I  may  not  do,  for  the  house  is 
alone."  Victorine  was  herself  now,  and  was 
wise  enough  not  to  go  quite  out  of  sight.  She 
looked  entrancing  between  the  dark  wooden 
balustrades,  one  slender  hand  holding  to  them, 
and  the  other  catching  up  part  of  her  hair. 
"When  my  aunt  returns,  if  she  bids  me  to 
wait  at  supper  I  shall  see  thee."  And  Vic 
torine  was  gone. 

"Then  sing  for  me  at  thy  window,"  en 
treated  Willan. 

"  I  know  not  the  whole  of  any  song,"  cried 
Victorine  ;  but  broke,  as  she  said  it,  into  a 
snatch  of  a  carol  which  seemed  to  the  poor 
infatuated  man  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway  like 
the  song  of  an  angel.  He  hurried  out,  and 


92  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

threw  himself  down  under  the  pear-tree  where 
he  had  lain  before.  The  blossoms  had  all 
fallen  from  the  pear-tree  now,  and  through 
the  thinned  branches  he  could  see  Victor- 
ine's  window  distinctly.  She  could  see  him 
also. 

"  It  would  be  no  hard  thing  to  love  such  a 
man  as  he,  methinks,"  she  said  to  herself  as 
she  went  on  leisurely  weaving  the  thick  braids 
of  her  hair,  and  humming  a  song  just  low 
enough  for  Willan  to  half  hear  and  half  lose 
the  words. 

"  Once  in  a  hedge  a  bird  went  singing, 

Singing  because  there  was  nobody  near. 
Close  to  the  hedge  a  voice  came  crying, 
'  Sing  it  again  !    I  am  waiting  to  hear. 
Sing  it  forever  !     'T  is  sweet  to  hear.' 

"  Never  again  that  bird  went  singing 

Till  it  was  surer  that  no  one  was  near. 
Long  in  that  hedge  there  was  somebody  waiting, 
Crying  in  vain,  '  I  am  waiting  to  hear. 
Sing  it  again  !     It  was  sweet  to  hear.'  " 

"  I  wonder  if  Sister  Clarice's  lover  had  asked 
her  to  sing,  as  Willan  Blaycke  just  now  asked 
me,  that  she  did  make  this  song,"  thought 
Victorine.  "  It  hath  a  marvellous  fitness, 
surely."  And  she  repeated  the  last  three  lines. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   93 


"  Long  in  that  hedge  there  was  somebody  waiting, 
Crying  in  vain,  '  I  am  waiting  to  hear. 
Sing  it  again  I     It  was  sweet  to  hear.'  " 

"But  I  should  be  silent  like  the  bird,  and  not 
sing,"  she  reflected,  and  paused  for  a  while. 
Willan  listened  patiently  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  growing  impatient,  he  picked  up  a  hand 
ful  of  turf  and  flung  it  up  at  the  window.  Vic- 
torine  laughed  to  herself  as  she  heard  it,  but 
did  not  sing.  Another  soft  thud  against  the 
casement ;  no  reply  from  Victorine.  Then  in 
a  moment  more,  in  a  rich  deep  voice,  and  a 
tune  far  sweeter  than  any  Victorine  had  sung, 
came  these  words  :  — 

"  Faint  and  weary  toiled  a  pilgrim, 

Faint  and  weary  of  his  load  ; 
Sudden  came  a  sweet  bird  winging 
Glad  and  swift  across  his  road. 

"  '  Blessed  songster  ! '  cried  the  pilgrim, 

'  Where  is  now  the  load  I  bore  ? 
I  forget  it  in  thy  singing ; 

Hearing  thee,  I  faint  no  more/ 

"  While  he  spoke  the  bird  went  winging 

Higher  still,  and  soared  away ; 
1  Cruel  songster ! '  cried  the  pilgrim, 
'  Cruel  songster  not  to  stay  ! ' 

"  Was  the  songster  cruel  ?    Never  ! 

High  above  some  other  road 
Glad  and  swift  he  still  was  singing, 
Lightening  other  pilgrims'  load !  " 


94  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

Victorine  bent  her  head  and  listened  in 
tently  to  this  song.  It  touched  the  best  side 
of  her  nature. 

"  Indeed,  that  is  a  good  song,"  she  said 
to  herself,  "  but  it  fitteth  not  my  singing. 
I  make  choice  for  whom  I  sing  ;  I  am  not 
minded  so  to  give  pleasure  to  all  the  world." 

She  racked  her  brains  to  recall  some  song 
which  would  be  as  pertinent  a  reply  to  Willan's 
song  as  his  had  been  to  hers  ;  but  she  could 
think  of  none.  She  was  vexed  ;  for  the  ro 
mance  of  this  conversing  by  means  of  songs 
pleased  her  mightily.  At  last,  half  in  earnest 
and  half  in  fun,  she  struck  boldly  into  a  meas 
ure  on  which  she  would  hardly  have  ventured 
could  she.  have  seen  the  serious  and  tender 
expression  on  the  face  of  her  listener  under 
the  pear-tree.  As  Willan  caught  line  after 
line  of  the  rollicking  measure,  his  countenance 
changed. 

"  An  elfish  mood  is  upon  her,"  he  thought. 
"  She  doth  hold  herself  so  safe  in  her  chamber 
that  she  may  venture  on  words  she  had  not 
sung  nearer  at  hand.  She  is  not  without  mis 
chief  in  her  blood,  no  doubt."  And  Willan's 
own  look  began  to  grow  less  reverential  and 
more  eager  as  he  listened. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   95 

"  The  bee  is  a  fool  in  the  summer ; 

He  knows  it  when  summer  is  flown : 
He  might,  for  all  good  of  his  honey, 
As  well  have  let  flowers  alone. 

"  The  butterfly,  he  is  the  wiser ; 

He  uses  his  wings  when  they  're  grown ; 
He  takes  his  delight  in  the  summer, 
And  dies  when  the  summer  is  done. 

"A  heart  is  a  weight  in  the  bosom; 
A  heart  can  be  heavy  as  stone  : 
Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  a  lover  ? 
A  maiden  is  better  alone." 

Victorine  was  a  little  frightened  herself,  as 
she  sang  this  last  stanza.  However,  she  said 
to  herself:  "I  will  bear  me  so  discreetly  at 
supper  that  the  man  shall  doubt  his  very  ears 
if  he  have  ever  heard  me  sing  such  words  or 
not.  It  is  well  to  perplex  a  man.  The  more 
he  be  perplexed,  the  more  he  meditateth  on 
thee ;  and  the  more  he  meditateth  on  thee, 
the  more  his  desire  will  grow,  if  it  have  once 
taken  root." 

A  very  wise  young  lady  in  her  generation 
was  this  graduate  of  a  convent  where  no  men 
save  priests  ever  came  ! 

Just  as  Victorine  had  sung  the  last  verse 
of  her  song,  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels 
and  voices  on  the  road.  Victor  and  Jeanne 


96  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

were  coming  home.  Willan  heard  the  sounds 
also,  and  slowly  arose  from  the  ground  and 
sauntered  into  the  courtyard.  Fie  had  an  in 
stinct  that  it  would  be  better  not  to  be  seen 
under  the  pear-tree. 

Great  was  the  satisfaction  of  Victor  and 
Jeanne  when  they  found  that  Willan  Blaycke 
was  a  guest  in  the  inn ;  still  greater  when 
they  learned  that  he  would  be  kept  there  for 
at  least  two  days  by  the  lameness  of  his  horse. 

"Thou  need'st  not  make  great  haste  with  the 
healing  of  the  beast,"  said  Victor  to  Benoit ; 
"  it  might  be  a  good  turn  to  keep  the  man 
here  for  a  space."  And  the  master  exchanged 
one  significant  glance  with  his  man,  and  saw 
that  he  need  say  no  more. 

There  was  no  such  specific  understanding 
between  Jeanne  and  Victorine.  From  some 
perverse  and  roguish  impulse  the  girl  chose 
to  take  no  counsel  in  this  game  she  had  be 
gun  to  play ;  but  each  woman  knew  that  the 
other  comprehended  the  situation  perfectly. 

When  Victorine  came  into  the  dining-room 
to  serve  Willan  Blaycke's  supper,  she  looked, 
to  his  eyes,  prettier  than  ever.  She  wore  the 
same  white  gown  and  black  silk  apron  with 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   97 

crimson  lace  she  had  worn  before.  Her 
cheeks  and  her  eyes  were  bright  from  the  ex 
citement  of  the  serenading  and  counter-sere 
nading  in  which  she  had  been  engaged.  Her 
whole  bearing  was  an  inimitable  blending  of 
shyness  and  archness,  tempered  by  almost 
reverential  respect.  Willan  Blaycke  would 
have  been  either  more  or  less  than  mortal 
man  if  he  had  resisted  it.  He  did  not,  — he 
succumbed  then  and  there  and  utterly  to 
his  love  for  Victorine ;  and  the  next  morning 
when  breakfast  was  ready  he  electrified  Vic 
tor  Dubois  by  saying,  with  a  not  wholly  suc 
cessful  attempt  at  jocularity,  - 

"  Look  you !  your  man  tells  me  I  am  like 
to  be  kept  here  a  matter  of  some  three  days 
or  more,  before  my  horse  be  fit  to  bear  me. 
Now,  it  irks  me  to  be  the  cause  of  so  much 
trouble,  seeing  that  I  am  the  only  traveller  in 
the  house.  I  pray  you  that  I  may  sit  down 
with  you  all  at  meal-times,  as  is  your  wont, 
and  that  you  make  no  change  in  the  manner 
of  your  living  by  reason  of  my  being  in  the 
house.  I  shall  be  better  pleased  so." 

There  was  about  as  much  command  as  re 
quest   in  Willan's   manner;  and  after  some 


7 


98  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

pretended  hesitancy  Victor  yielded,  only  say 
ing,  by  way  of  breaking  down  the  last 
barrier,  — 

"  My  daughter  hath  desired  not  to  see  thee. 
I  know  not  how  she  may  take  this  request  of 
thine ;  it  seemeth  but  reasonable  unto  me, 
and  it  will  be  that  saving  of  work  for  her.  I 
think  she  may  consent." 

Nothing  but  her  love  for  Victorine  would 
have  induced  Jeanne  to  sit  again  at  meat 
with  her  stepson,  but  for  Victorine's  sake 
Jeanne  would  have  done  much  harder 
things ;  and  indeed,  after  the  first  few  mo 
ments  of  awkwardness  had  passed  by,  she 
found  that  she  was  much  less  uncomfortable 
in  Willan's  presence  than  she  had  anticipated. 

Willan's  own  manner  did  much  to  bring 
this  about.  He  was  so  deeply  in  love  with 
Victorine  that  it  had  already  transformed  his 
sentiments  on  most  points,  and  on  none  more 
than  in  regard  to  Jeanne.  He  thought  no 
better  of  her  character  than  he  had  thought 
before ;  but  he  found  himself  frequently  rec 
ollecting,  as  he  had  never  done  before,  or  at 
least  had  never  done  in  a  kindly  way,  that, 
after  all,  she  had  been  his  father's  wife  for 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    99 

ten  years,  and  it  would  perhaps  have  been  a 
more  dignified  thing  in  him  to  have  attempted 
to  make  her  continue  in  a  style  of  living 
suitable  to  his  father's  name  than  to  have 
relegated  her,  as  he  had  done,  to  her  original 
and  lower  social  station. 

Jeanne's  behavior  towards  him  was  very  ju 
dicious.  Affection  is  the  best  teacher  of  tact 
in  many  an  emergency  in  life  ;  we  see  it  every 
day  among  ignorant  and  untaught  people. 

Jeanne  knew,  or  felt  without  knowing,  that 
the  less  she  appeared  to  be  conscious  of  any 
thing  unusual  or  unpleasant  in  this  resump 
tion  of  familiar  relations  on  the  surface,  be 
tween  herself  and  Willan,  the  more  free  his 
mind  would  be  to  occupy  itself  with  Victor- 
ine  ;  and  she  acted  accordingly.  She  never 
obtruded  herself  on  his  attention ;  she  never 
betrayed  any  antagonism  toward  him,  or  any 
recollection  of  the  former  and  different  foot 
ing  on  which  they  had  lived.  A  stranger 
sitting  at  the  table  would  not  have  dreamed, 
from  anything  in  her  manner  to  him,  that  she 
had  ever  occupied  any  other  position  than 
that  of  the  landlord's  daughter  and  landlady 
of  the  inn. 


100  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

A  clear-sighted  observer  looking  on  at  af 
fairs  in  the  Golden  Pear  for  the  next  three 
days  would  have  seen  that  all  the  energies 
of  both  Victor  and  Jeanne  were  bent  to  one 
end,  —  namely,  leaving  the  coast  clear  for 
Willan  Blaycke  to  fall  in  love  with  Victorine. 
But  all  that  Willan  thought  was  that  Victor 
and  his  daughter  were  far  quieter  and  mod- 
ester  people  than  he  had  supposed,  and 
seemed  disposed  to  keep  themselves  to  them 
selves  in  a  most  proper  fashion.  It  never 
crossed  his  mind  that  there  was  anything 
odd  in  his  finding  Victorine  so  often  and 
so  long  alone  in  the  living-room  ;  in  the  uni 
form  disappearance  of  both  Victor  and  Jeanne 
at  an  early  hour  in  the  evening.  Willan 
was  too  much  in  love  to  wonder  at  or  disap 
prove  of  anything  which  gave  him  an  op 
portunity  of  talking  with  Victorine,  or,  still 
better,  of  looking  at  her. 

What  he  liked  best  was  silently  to  watch 
her  as  she  moved  about,  doing  her  light  duties 
in  her  own  graceful  way.  He  was  not  a  vol 
uble  lover ;  he  was  still  too  much  bewildered 
at  his  own  condition.  Moreover,  he  had  not 
yet  shaken  himself  free  from  the  tormenting 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    IOI 

disapproval  of  his  conscience  ;  he  lost  sight 
of  that  very  fast,  however,  as  the  days  sped 
on.  Victorine  played  her  cards  most  admi 
rably.  She  did  not  betray  even  by  a  look 
that  she  understood  that  he  loved  her;  she 
showed  towards  him  an  open  and  honest  ad 
miration,  and  an  eager  interest  in  all  that  he 
said  or  did,  —  an  almost  affectionate  good-will, 
too,  in  serving  his  every  want,  and  trying  to 
make  the  time  of  his  detention  pass  pleasantly 
to  him. 

"  It  must  be  a  sore  trial,  sir,  for  thee  to  be 
kept  in  a  poor  place  like  this  so  many  days. 
Benoit  says  that  he  thinks  not  thy  horse  can 
go  safely  for  yet  some  days,"  she  said  to  Wil- 
lan  one  morning.  "  Would  it  amuse  thee  to 
ride  over  to  Pierre  Gaspard's  mill  to-day  ?  If 
thou  couldst  abide  the  gait  of  my  grandfather's 
nag,  I  might  go  on  my  pony,  and  show  thee 
the  way.  The  river  is  high  now,  and  it  is  a 
fair  sight  to  see  the  white  blossoms  along  the 
banks." 

Cunning  Victorine !  She  had  all  sorts  of 
motives  in  this  proposition.  She  thought  it 
would  be  well  to  show  Willan  Blaycke  to 
Pierre.  "  He  may  discover  that  there  are 


102  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

other  men  beside  himself  in  the  world,"  she 
mused  ;  and,  "  It  would  please  me  much  to 
go  riding  up  to  the  door  for  Annette  to 
see  with  the  same  brave  rider  she  did  so 
admire ; "  and,  "  There  are  many  ways  to 
bring  a  man  near  one  in  riding  through 
the  woods."  All  these  and  many  more  sim 
ilar  musings  lay  hid  behind  the  innocent 
look  she  lifted  to  Willan's  face  as  she  sug 
gested  the  ride. 

It  was  only  the  third  morning  of  Willan's 
stay  at  the  inn  ;  but  the  time  had  been  put 
to  very  good  use.  Already  it  had  become 
natural  to  him  to  come  and  go  with  Vic- 
torine,  —  to  stay  where  she  was,  to  seek 
her  if  she  were  missing.  Already  he  had 
learned  the  way  up  the  outside  staircase  to 
the  platform  where  she  kept  her  flowers 
and  sometimes  sat.  He  was  living  in  a 
dream,  —  going  the  way  of  all  men,  head 
long,  blindfold,  into  a  life  of  which  he  knew 
and  could  know  nothing. 

"Indeed,  and  that  is  what  I  should  like 
best  of  all  things,"  he  replied  to  Victorine. 
"  Will  thy  aunt  let  thee  go  ? " 

"  Why  not  ? "  asked  Victorine,  opening  her 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   103 

eyes  wide  in  astonishment.     "  I  ride  all  over 
the  parish  on  my  pony  alone." 

"Stupid  of  me!"  ejaculated  Willan,  in 
wardly;  "as  if  these  people  could  know 
any  scruples  about  etiquette!" 

"  These  people,"  as  Willan  contemptuously 
called  them,  stood  at  the  door  of  the  inn,  and 
watched  him  riding  away  with  Victorine  with 
hardly  disguised  exultation.  Not  till  the  rid 
ers  were  fairly  out  of  sight  did  Victor  ven 
ture  to  turn  his  face  toward  Jeanne's.  Then, 
bursting  into  a  loud  laugh,  he  clapped  Jeanne 
on  the  shoulder,  and  said :  "  We  '11  see  thee 
grandmother  of  thy  husband's  grandchildren 
yet,  Jeanne.  Ha  !  ha  !  " 

Jeanne  flushed.  She  was  not  without  a 
sense  of  shame.  Her  love  for  Victorine  made 
her  sensitive  to  the  stain  on  her  birth. 

"  Thinkest  thou  it  could  ever  be  known  ?  " 
she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Never,"  replied  her  father,  —  "  never  ;  't  is 
as  safe  as  if  we  were  all  dead.  And  for  that, 
the  living  are  safer  than  the  dead,  if  there  be 
tight  enough  lock  on  their  mouths." 

"  He  doth  seem  to  be  as  much  in  love  as 
one  need,"  said  Jeanne. 


104  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

"Ay,"  said  Victor,  "more  than  ever  his 
father  was  with  thee." 

"Canst  thou  not  let  that  alone?"  said 
Jeanne,  angrily.  "  Surely  it  is  long  enough 
gone  by,  and  small  profit  came  of  it." 

"  Not  so,  not  so,  daughter,"  replied  Victor, 
soothingly  ;  "if  we  can  but  set  the  girl  in  thy 
shoes,  thou  didst  not  wear  thine  for  nought, 
even  though  they  pinched  thee  for  a  time." 

"That  they  did,"  retorted  Jeanne;  "it 
gives  me  a  cramp  now  but  to  remember 
them." 

Willan  and  Victorine  galloped  merrily 
along  the  river  road.  The  woods  were  sweet 
with  spring  fragrances  ;  great  thickets  of  dog 
wood  trees  were  white  with  flowers ;  mossy 
hillocks  along  the  roadside  were  pink  with  the 
dainty  bells  of  the  Linnaea.  The  road  was  lit 
tle  more  than  a  woodman's  path,  and  curved 
now  right,  now  left,  in  seeming  caprice ;  now 
forded  a  stream,  now  came  out  into  a  cleared 
field,  again  plunged  back  into  dense  groves 
of  larch  and  pine. 

"  Never  knew  I  that  the  woods  were  so 
beautiful  thus  early  in  the  year,"  said  the 
honest  Willan. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   105 

"  Nor  I,  till  to-day,"  said  the  artful  Victor- 
ine,  who  knew  well  enough  what  Willan  did 
not  know  himself. 

"  Dost  thou  ride  here  alone  ? "  asked  Wil 
lan.  "  It  is  a  wild  place  for  thee  to  be  alone." 

"  If  I  came  not  alone,  I  could  not  come  at 
all,"  replied  Victorine,  sorrowfully.  "My 
grandfather  is  too  busy,  and  my  aunt  likes 
not  to  ride  except  she  must,  on  a  market  day 
or  to  go  to  church.  No  one  but  thou  hast 
ever  walked  or  ridden  with  me,"  she  added 
in  a  low  voice,  sighing ;  "  and  now  after  two 
days  or  three  thou  wilt  be  gone." 

Willan  sighed  also,  but  did  not  speak.  The 
words,  "  I  will  always  ride  by  thy  side,  Vic 
torine,"  were  on  his  lips,  but  he  felt  himself 
still  withheld  from  speaking  them. 

The  visit  at  the  mill  was  unsatisfactory. 
The  elder  Gaspard  was  away,  and  young 
Pierre  was  curt  and  surly.  The  sight  of  Vic 
torine  riding  familiarly,  and  with  an  evident 
joyous  pride,  by  the  side  of  one  of  the  rich 
est  men  in  the  country,  and  a  young  man 
at  that,— and  a  young  man,  moreover,  who 
looked  and  behaved  as  if  he  were  in  love 
with  his  companion,  — how  could  the  poor 


106  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

miller  be  expected  to  be  cordial  and  uncon 
strained  with  such  a  sight  before  his  eyes ! 
Annette  also  was  more  overawed  even  than 
Victorine  had  desired  she  should  be  by  the 
sight  of  the  handsome  stranger, — so  overawed, 
and  withal  perhaps  a  little  curious,  that  she 
was  dumb  and  awkward  ;  and  as  for  Mere 
Gaspard,  she  never  under  any  circumstances 
had  a  word  to  say.  So  the  visit  was  very  stu 
pid,  and  everybody  felt  ill  at  ease,  —  especially 
Willan,  who  had  lost  his  temper  in  the  be 
ginning  at  a  speech  of  Pierre's  to  Victorine, 
which  seemed  to  his  jealous  sense  too  familiar. 

"  I  thought  thou  never  wouldst  take  leave," 
he  said  ill-naturedly  to  Victorine,  as  they 
rode  away. 

Victorine  turned  towards  him  with  an  ad 
mirably  counterfeited  expression  of  surprise. 
"  Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  "  I  did  think  I  ought  to 
wait  for  thee  to  take  leave.  I  was  dying  with 
the  desire  I  had  to  be  back  in  the  woods 
again  ;  and  only  when  I  could  not  bear  it 
any  longer,  did  I  bethink  me  to  say  that  my 
aunt  expected  us  back  to  dinner." 

Long  they  lingered  on  the  river-banks  on 
their  way  home.  Even  the  plotting  brain  of 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    IO/ 

Victorine  was  not  insensible  to  the  charm  of 
the  sky,  the  air,  the  budding  foliage,  and  the 
myriads  of  blossoms.  "  Oh,  sir,"  she  said, 
"  I  think  there  never  was  such  a  day  as  this 
before ! " 

"  I  know  there  never  was,"  replied  Willan, 
looking  at  her  with  an  expression  which  was 
key  to  his  words.  But  the  daughter  of  Jeanne 
Dubois  was  not  to  be  wooed  by  any  vague 
sentimentalisms.  There  was  one  sentence 
which  she  was  intently  waiting  to  hear  Willan 
Blaycke  speak.  Anything  short  of  that 
Mademoiselle  Victorine  was  too  innocent  to 
comprehend. 

"  Sweet  child  !  "  thought  Willan  to  himself, 
"  she  doth  not  know  the  speech  of  lovers.  I 
mistrust  that  if  I  wooed  her  outright,  she 
would  be  afraid." 

It  was  long  past  noon  when  they  reached 
the  Golden  Pear.  Dinner  had  waited  till  the 
hungry  Victor  and  Jeanne  could  wait  no 
longer ;  but  a  very  pretty  and  dainty  little 
repast  was  ready  for  Willan  and  Victorine. 
As  she  sat  opposite  him  at  the  table,  so 
bright  and  beaming,  her  whole  face  full  of 
pleasure,  Willan  leaned  both  his  arms  on 


108  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

the  table  and  looked  at  her  in  silence  for 
some  minutes. 

"  Victorine  !  "  he  said.  Victorine  started. 
She  was  honestly  very  hungry,  and  had  been 
so  absorbed  in  eating  her  dinner  she  had  not 
noticed  Willan's  look.  She  dropped  her  knife 
and  sprang  up. 

"  What  is  it,  sir  ?  "  she  said  ;  "  what  shall 
I  fetch  ?  "  Her  instantaneous  resumption  of 
the  serving-maid's  relation  to  him  jarred  on 
Willan  at  that  second  indescribably,  and  shut 
down  like  a  floodgate  on  the  words  he  was 
about  to  speak. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  said  he.  "  I  was  only 
going  to  say  that  thou  must  sleep  this  after 
noon  ;  thou  art  tired." 

"  Nay,  I  am  not  tired,"  said  Victorine,  pet 
ulantly.  "  What  is  a  matter  of  six  leagues  of 
a  morning?  I  could  ride  it  again  between 
this  and  sunset,  and  not  be  tired." 

But  she  was  tired,  and  she  did  sleep,  though 
she  had  not  meant  to  do  so  when  she  threw 
herself  on  her  bed,  a  little  later ;  she  had  meant 
only  to  rest  herself  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
in  a  fresh  toilette  return  to  Willan.  But  she 
slept  on  and  on  until  after  sunset,  and  Willan 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.  109 

wandered  aimlessly  about,  wondering  what 
had  become  of  her.  Jeanne  saw  him,  but 
forebore  to  take  any  note  of  his  uneasiness. 
She  had  looked  in  upon  Victorine  in  her 
slumber,  and  was  well  content  that  it  should 
be  so. 

"  The  girl  will  awake  refreshed  and  rosy," 
thought  Jeanne ;  "  and  it  will  do  no  harm, 
but  rather  good,  if  he  have  missed  her  sorely 
all  the  afternoon." 

Supper  was  over,  and  the  evening  work  all 
done  when  Victorine  waked.  It  was  dusk. 
Rubbing  her  eyes,  she  sprang  up  and  went 
to  the  window.  Jeanne  heard  her  steps,  and 
coming  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  called  :  "  Thou 
need'st  not  to  come  down ;  all  is  done. 
What  shall  I  bring  thee  to  eat?" 

"  Why  didst  thou  not  waken  me  ? "  replied 
Victorine,  petulantly  ;  "  I  meant  not  to  sleep." 

"  I  thought  the  sleep  was  better,"  replied 
her  aunt  "Thou  didst  look  tired,  and  it 
suits  no  woman's  looks  to  be  tired." 

Victorine  was  silent.  She  saw  Willan 
walking  up  and  down  under  the  pear-tree. 
She  leaned  out  of  her  window  and  moved 
one  of  the  flower-pots.  Willan  looked  up; 


1 10  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

in  a  second  more  he  had  bounded  np  the 
staircase,  and  eagerly  said  :  "  Art  thou  there  ? 
Wilt  thou  never  come  down  ? " 

Victorine  was  uncertain  in  her  own  mind 
what  was  the  best  thing  to  do  next;  so  she 
replied  evasively:  "Thou  wert  right,  after 
all.  I  did  not  feel  myself  tired,  but  I  have 
slept  until  now." 

"Then  thou  art  surely  rested.  Canst  thou 
not  come  and  walk  with  me  in  the  pear  or 
chard  ? "  said  Willan. 

"  I  fear  me  I  may  not  do  that  after  night 
fall,"  replied  Victorine.  "  My  aunt  would  be 
angry." 

"She  need  not  know/'  replied  the  eager 
Willan.  "Thou  canst  come  down  by  this 
stairway,  and  it  is  already  near  dark." 

Victorine  laughed  a  little  low  laugh.  This 
pleased  her.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  have  often 
come  down  by  that  post  from  my  window  ; 
but  truly,  I  fear  I  ought  not  to  do  it  for  thee. 
What  should  I  say  to  my  aunt  if  she  missed 


me?" 


"  Oh,  she  thinks  thee  asleep,"  said  Willan. 
"  She  told  me  at  supper  that  she  would  not 
waken  thee." 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    1 1 1 

All  of  which  Mistress  Jeanne  heard  dis 
tinctly,  standing  midway  on  the  wide  stair 
case,  with  Victorine's  supper  of  bread  and 
milk  in  her  hand.  She  had  like  to  have 
spilled  the  whole  bowlful  of  milk  for  laughing. 
But  she  stood  still,  holding  her  breath  lest 
Victorine  should  hear  her,  till  the  conversa 
tion  ceased,  and  she  heard  Victorine  moving 
about  in  her  room  again.  Then  she  went  in, 
and  kissing  Victorine,  said  :  "  Eat  thy  supper 
now,  and  go  to  bed ;  it  is  late.  Good-night. 
I  '11  wake  thee  early  enough  in  the  morning 
to  pay  for  not  having  called  thee  this  after 
noon.  Good-night." 

Then  Jeanne  went  down  to  her  own  room, 
blew  out  her  candle,  and  seated  herself  at  the 
window  to  hear  what  would  .happen. 

"  My  aunt's  candle  is  out ;  she  hath  gone 
to  bed,"  whispered  Victorine,  as  holding  Wil- 
lan's  hand  she  stole  softly  down  the  outer 
stair.  "I  do  doubt  much  that  I  am  doing 
wrong." 

.  "  Nay,  nay,"  whispered  Willan.  "  Thou  sweet 
one,  what  wrong  can  there  be  in  thy  walking 
a  little  time  with  me  ?  Thy  aunt  did  let  thee 
ride  with  me  all  the  day."  And  he  tenderly 


112  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

guided  Victorine's  steps  down  the  steep 
stairs. 

"  Pretty  well !  pretty  well !  "  laughed  Mis 
tress  Jeanne  behind  her  casement ;  and  as 
soon  as  the  sound  of  Willan's  and  Victorine's 
steps  had  died  away,  she  ran  downstairs  to 
tell  Victor  what  had  happened.  Victor  was 
not  so  pleased  as  Jeanne;  he  did  not  share 
her  confidence  in  Victorine's  character. 

"  Sacre  ! "  he  said  ;  "  what  wert  thou  think 
ing  of  ?  Dost  want  another  niece  to  be  fetched 

O 

up  in  a  convent  ?  Thou  mayst  thank  thyself 
for  it,  if  thou  art  grandmother  to  one.  I  trust 
no  man  out  of  sight,  and  no  girl.  The  man  's 
in  love  with  the  girl,  that  is  plain ;  but  he 
means  no  marrying." 

"  That  thou  dost  not  know,"  retorted  Jeanne. 
"  I  tell  thee  he  is  an  honorable,  high-minded 
man,  and  as  pure  as  if  he  were  but  just 
now  weaned.  I  know  him,  and  thou  dost 
not.  He  will  marry  her,  or  he  will  leave  her 
alone." 

"We  shall  see,"  muttered  the  coarse  old 
man  as  he  walked  away,  —  "  we  shall  see.  Like 
mother,  like  child.  I  trust  them  not."  And 
in  a  thorough  ill-humor  Victor  betook  him- 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.    113' 

self  to  the  courtyard.  What  he  heard  there 
did  not  reassure  him.  Old  Benoit  had  seen 
Willan  and  Victorine  going  down  through  the 
poplar  copse  toward  the  pear  orchard.  "  And 
may  the  saints  forsake  me,"  said  Benoit,  "  if  I 
do  not  think  he  had  his  arm  around  her  waist 
and  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  Think'st  thou 
he  will  marry  her  ?  " 

"Nay,"  growled  Victor;  "he's  no  fool. 
That  Jeanne  hath  set  her  heart  on  it,  and 
thinketh  it  will  come  about ;  but  not  so  I." 

"He  seems  of  a  rare  fine-breeding  and 
honorable  speech,"  said  Benoit. 

"Ay,  ay,"  replied  Victor,  "words  are  quick 
said,  and  fine  manners  come  easy  to  some; 
but  a  man  looks  where  he  weds." 

"  His  father  did  not  have  chance  for  much 
looking,"  sneered  Benoit. 

"This  is  another  breed,  even  if  his  father 
begot  him,"  replied  Victor.  "  He  goeth  no 
such  way  as  that."  And  thoroughly  disqui 
eted,  Victor  returned  to  the  house  to  report 
to  Jeanne  what  Benoit  had  seen.  She  was 
still  undisturbed. 

"Thou  wilt  see,"  was  her  only  reply;  and 
the  two  sat  down  together  in  the  porch  to 


114  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

await  the  lovers'  return.  Hour  after  hour 
passed  ;  even  Jeanne  began  to  grow  alarmed. 
It  was  long  after  midnight. 

"  I  fear  some  accident  hath  befallen  them," 
she  said  at  last.  "Would  it  be  well,  thinkest 
thou,  to  go  in  search  of  them  ? " 

"  Not  a  step  !  "  cried  Victor.  "  He  took  her 
away,  and  he  must  needs  bring  her  back.  We 
await  them  here.  He  shall  see  whether  he 
may  tamper  with  the  granddaughter  of  Victor 
Dubois." 

"Hush,  father!"  said  Jeanne,  "here  they 
come." 

Walking  very  slowly,  arm  in  arm,  came 
Willan  and  Victorine.  They  had  evidently 
no  purpose  of  entering  the  house  clandes 
tinely,  but  were  approaching  the  front  door. 

"Hoity,  toity!"  muttered  Victor;  "he 
thinks  he  can  lord  it  over  us,  surely." 

"  Be  quiet,  father !  "  entreated  Jeanne.  Her 
quick  eye  saw  something  new  in  the  bearing 
of  both  Willan  and  Victorine.  But  Victor 
was  not  to  be  quieted.  With  an  angry  oath, 
he  sprung  forward  from  the  porch,  and  began 
to  upbraid  Willan  in  no  measured  tones. 

Willan  lifted  his  right  hand  authoritatively. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  GOLDEN  PEAR.   115 

"Wait!"  he  said.  "Do  not  say  what  thou 
wilt  repent,  Victor  Dubois.  Thy  grand 
daughter  hath  promised  to  be  my  wife." 

So  the  new  generation  avenged  the  old  ; 
and  Willan  Blaycke,  in  the  prime  of  his  cul 
tured  and  fastidious  manhood,  fell  victim  to 
a  spell  less  coarsely  woven  but  no  less  de 
moralizing  than  that  which  had  imbittered 
the  last  years  of  his  father's  life. 

NOTE.  —  "The  Inn  of  the  Golden  Pear'*  includes  three 
chapters  of  a  longer  story  entitled  "  Elspeth  Pynevor,"  —  a 
story  of  such  remarkable  vigor  and  promise,  and  planned 
on  such  noble  and  powerful  lines  as  to  deepen  regret  that 
its  author's  death  left  it  but  half  finished.  A  single  sen 
tence  has  been  added  by  another  hand  to  round  the  episode 
of  Willan  Blaycke's  infatuation  to  conclusion. 


Il6  BETWEEN  WHILES. 


THE    MYSTERY    OF   WILHELM 
RUTTER. 

IT  was  long  past  dusk  of  an  August  evening. 
Farmer  Weitbreck  stood  leaning  on  the 
big  gate  of  his  barnyard,  looking  first  up  and 
then  down  the  road.  He  was  chewing  a  straw, 
and  his  face  wore  an  expression  of  deep  per 
plexity.  These  were  troublous  times  in  Lan 
caster  County.  Never  before  had  the  farmers 
been  so  put  to  it  for  farm  service  ;  harvest- 
time  had  come,  and  instead  of  the  stream  of 
laborers  seeking  employment,  which  usually  at 
this  season  set  in  as  regularly  as  river  freshets 
in  spring,  it  was  this  year  almost  impossible 
to  hire  any  one. 

The  explanation  of  this  nobody  knew  or 
could  divine;  but  the  fact  was  indisputable, 
and  the  farmers  were  in  dismay,  —  nobody 
more  so  than  Farmer  Weitbreck,  who  had 
miles  of  bottom-lands,  in  grain  of  one  sort 
and  another,  all  yellow  and  nodding,  and 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    1 1/ 

ready  for  the  sickle,  and  nobody  but  him 
self  and  his  son  John  to  swing  scythe,  sickle, 
or  flail  on  the  place. 

"  Never  I  am  caught  this  way  anoder  year," 
thought  he,  as  he  gazed  wearily  up  and  down 
the  dark,  silent  road  ;  "  but  that  does  to  me 
no  goot  this  time  that  is  now." 

Gustavus  Weitbreck  had  lived  so  long  on 
his  Pennsylvania  farm  that  he  even  thought  in 
English  instead  of  in  German,  and,  strangely 
enough,  in  English  much  less  broken  and 
idiomatic  than  that  which  he  spoke.  But  his 
phraseology  was  the  only  thing  about  him 
that  had  changed.  In  modes  of  feeling,  hab 
its  of  life,  he  was  the  same  he  had  been  forty 
years  ago,  when  he  farmed  a  little  plot  of 
land,  half  wheat,  half  vineyard,  in  the  Mayence 
meadows  in  the  fatherland,  —  slow,  methodi 
cal,  saving,  stupid,  upright,  obstinate.  All 
these  traits  "  Old  Weitbreck,"  as  he  was  called 
all  through  the  country,  possessed  to  a  degree 
much  out  of  the  ordinary ;  and  it  was  a  com 
bination  of  two  of  them  —  the  obstinacy  and 
the  savingness  —  which  had  brought  him  into 
his  present  predicament. 

In  June  he  had  had  a  good  laborer,  —  one  of 


Il8  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

the  best  known,  and  eagerly  sought  by  every 
farmer  in  the  county ;  a  man  who  had  never 
yet  been  beaten  in  a  mowing-match  or  a  reap 
ing.  By  his  help  the  haying  had  been  done 
in  not  much  more  than  two  thirds  the  usual 
time ;  but  when  John  Weitbreck,  like  a  sen 
sible  fellow,  said,  "  Now,  we  would  better  keep 
Alf  on  till  harvest ;  there  is  plenty  of  odds- 
and-ends  work  about  the  farm  he  can  help  at, 
and  we  won't  get  his  like  again  in  a  hurry," 
his  father  had  cried  out, — 

"  Mein  Gott !  It  is  that  you  tink  I  must 
be  made  out  of  money !  I  vill  not  keep  dis 
man  on  so  big  wages  to  do  vat  you  call  odd- 
and-end  vork.  We  do  odd-and-end  vork 
ourself." 

There  was  no  discussion  of  the  point.  John 
Weitbreck  knew  better  than  ever  to  waste  his 
time  and  breath  or  temper  in  trying  to  change 
a  purpose  of  his  father's  or  convince  him  of  a 
mistake.  But  he  bided  his  time;  and  he  would 
not  have  been  human  if  he  had  not  now  taken 
secret  satisfaction,  seeing  his  father's  anxiety 
daily  increase  as  the  August  sun  grew  hotter 
and  hotter,  and  the  grain  rattled  in  the  husks 
waiting  to  be  reaped,  while  they  two,  straining 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.   1 19 

their  arms  to  the  utmost,  and  in  long  days' 
work,  seemed  to  produce  small  impression  on 
the  great  fields. 

"The  women  shall  come  work  in  field  to 
morrow,"  thought  the  old  man,  as  he  con 
tinued  his  anxious  reverie.  "  It  is  not  that 
they  sit  idle  all  day  in  house,  when  the  wheat 
grows  to  rattle  like  the  peas  in  pod.  They 
can  help,  the  mutter  and  Carlen  ;  that  will 
be  much  help ;  they  can  do."  And  hearing 
John's  steps  behind  him,  the  old  man  turned 
and  said, — 

"Johan,  dere  comes  yet  no  man  to  reap. 
To-morrow  must  go  in  the  field  Carlen  and 
the  mutter ;  it  must.  The  wheat  get  fast  too 
dry ;  it  is  more  as  two  men  can  do." 

John  bit  his  lips.  He  was  aghast.  Never 
had  he  seen  his  mother  and  sister  at  work  in 
the  fields.  John  had  been  born  in  America ; 
and  he  was  American,  not  German,  in  his 
feeling  about  this.  Without  due  consider 
ation  he  answered, — 

"  I  would  rather  work  day  and  night,  father, 
than  see  my  mother  and  sister  in  the  fields. 
I  will  do  it,  too,  if  only  you  will  not  make 
them  go!" 


120  BETWEEN   WHILES, 

The  old  man,  irritated  by  the  secret  knowl 
edge  that  he  had  nobody  but  himself  to  blame 
for  the  present  dilemma,  still  more  irritated, 
also,  by  this  proof  of  what  was  always  exceed 
ingly  displeasing  to  him,  —  his  son's  having 
adopted  American  standards  and  opinions,  — 
broke  out  furiously  with  a  wrath  wholly  dis 
proportionate  to  the  occasion,— 

"  You  be  tarn,  Johan  Weitbreck.  You  tink 
we  are  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies,  like  dese 
Americans  dat  is  too  proud  to  vork  vid  hands. 
I  say  tarn  dis  country,  vere  day  say  all  is 
alike,  an'  vork  all ;  and  ven  you  come  here, 
it  is  dat  nobody  vill  vork,  if  he  can  help, 
and  vimmins  ish  shame  to  be  seen  vork.  It 
is  not  shame  to  be  seen  vork;  I  vork,  mein 
vife  vork  too,  an'  my  childrens  vork  too, 
py  tarn  ! " 

John  walked  away, — his  only  resource  when 
his  father  was  in  a  passion.  John  occupied 
that  hardest  of  all  positions,  —  the  position  of 
a  full-grown,  mature  man  in  a  father's  home, 
where  he  is  regarded  as  nothing  more  than 
a  boy. 

As  he  entered  the  kitchen  and  saw  his 
pretty  sister  Carlen  at  the  high  spinning- 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    121 

wheel,  walking  back  and  forth  drawing  the 
fine  yarn  between  her  chubby  fingers,  all 
the  while  humming  a  low  song  to  which  the 
whirring  of  the  wheel  made  harmonious  ac 
companiment,  he  thought  to  himself  bitterly : 
"Work,  indeed!  As  if  they  did  not  work 
now  longer  than  we  do,  and  quite  as  hard! 
She  's  been  spinning  ever  since  daylight,  I 
believe." 

"  Is  it  hard  work  spinning,  Liebchen  ? "  he 
asked. 

Carlen  turned  her  round  blue  eyes  on  him 
with  astonishment.  There  was  something 
in  his  tone  that  smote  vaguely  on  her  con 
sciousness.  What  could  he  mean,  asking 
such  a  question  as  that  ? 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  is  not  hard  exactly. 
But  when  you  do  it  very  long  it  does  make 
the  arms  ache,  holding  them  so  long  in  the 
same  position  ;  and  it  tires  one  to  stand  all 
day ! " 

"Ay,"  said  John,  "that  is  the  way  it  tires 
one  to  reap ;  my  back  is  near  broke  with  it 
to-day." 

"  Has  no  one  come  to  help  yet?"  she  said. 
"No  ! "  said  John,  angrily,  "and  that  is  what 


122  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

I  told  father  when  he  let  Alf  go.  It  is  good 
enough  for  him  for  being  so  stingy  and  short 
sighted  ;  but  the  brunt  of  it  comes  on  me, 
—  that 's  the  worst  of  it.  I  don't  see  what 's 
got  all  the  men.  There  have  always  been 
plenty  round  every  year  till  now." 

"  Alf  said  he  should  n't  be  here  next  year," 
said  Carlen,  each  cheek  showing  a  little  signal 
of  pink  as  she  spoke ;  but  it  was  a  dim  light 
the  one  candle  gave,  and  John  did  not  see  the 
flush.  "  He  was  going  to  the  west  to  farm ; 
in  Oregon,  he  said." 

"Ay,  that's  it!"  replied  John.  "That's 
where  everybody  can  go  but  me !  I  '11  be 
going  too  some  day,  Carlen.  I  can't  stand 
things  here.  If  it  were  n't  for  you  I  'd  have 
been  gone  long  ago." 

"  I  would  n't  leave  mother  and  father  for 
all  the  world,  John,"  cried  Carlen,  warmly, 
"  and  I  don't  think  it  would  be  right  for  you 
to !  What  would  father  do  with  the  farm 
without  you  ? " 

"Well,  why  does  n't  he  see  that,  then,  and 
treat  me  as  a  man  ought  to  be  treated  ? "  ex 
claimed  John  ;  "  he  thinks  I  'm  no  older  than 
when  he  used  to  beat  me  with  the  strap." 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  R UTTER.    123 

"  I  think  fathers  and  mothers  are  always 
that  way,"  said  the  gentle,  cheery  Carlen, 
with  a  low  laugh.  "The  mother  tells  me 
each  time  how  to  wind  the  warp,  as  she  did 
when  I  was  little ;  and  she  will  always  look 
into  the  churn  for  herself.  I  think  it  is  the 
way  we  are  made.  We  will  do  the  same 
when  we  are  old,  John,  and  our  children 
will  be  wondering  at  us  ! " 

John  laughed.  This  was  always  the  way 
with  Carlen.  She  could  put  a  man  in  good 
humor  in  a  few  minutes,  however  cross  he 
felt  in  the  beginning. 

"  I  won't,  then  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  know 
I  won't.  If  ever  I  have  a  son  grown,  I  '11 
treat  him  like  a  son  grown,  not  like  a  baby." 

"May  I  be  there  to  see!"  said  Carlen, 
merrily, — 

"And  you  remember  free 
The  words  I  said  to  thee. 

Hold  the  candle  here  for  me,  will  you,  that 's 
a  good  boy.  While  we  have  talked,  my  yarn 
has  tangled." 

As  they  stood  close  together,  John  hold 
ing  the  candle  high  over  Carlen's  head,  she 
bending  over  the  tangled  yarn,  the  kitchen 


124  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

door  opened  suddenly,  and  their  father  came 
in,  bringing  with  him  a  stranger,  —  a  young 
man  seemingly  about  twenty-five  years  of  age, 
tall,  well  made,  handsome,  but  with  a  face  so 
melancholy  that  both  John  and  Carlen  felt  a 
shiver  as  they  looked  upon  it. 

"  Here  now  comes  de  hand,  at  last  of  de 
time,  Johan,"  cried  the  old  man.  "  It  vill  be 
that  all  can  veil  be  done  now.  And  it  is  goot 
that  he  is  from  mine  own  country.  He  can 
not  English  speak,  many  vords  ;  but  dat  is 
nothing;  he  can  vork.  I  tolt  you  dere  vould 
be  mans  come! " 

John  looked  scrutinizingly  at  the  new 
comer.  The  man's  eyes  fell. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  said  John. 

"  Wilhelm  Rutter,"  he  answered. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  country  ? " 

"Ten  days." 

"  Where  are  your  friends  ? " 

"  I  haf  none." 

"  None  ? " 

"  None." 

These  replies  were  given  in  a  tone  as  mel 
ancholy  as  the  expression  of  the  face. 

Carlen  stood  still,  her  wheel  arrested,  the 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    125 

yarn  between  her  thumb  and  ringer,  her  eyes 
fastened  on  the  stranger's  face.  A  thrill  of 
unspeakable  pity  stirred  her.  So  young,  so 
sad,  thus  alone  in  the  world  ;  who  ever  heard 
of  such  a  fate  ? 

"  But  there  were  people  who  came  with  you 
in  the  ship?"  said  John.  "There  is  some 
one  who  knows  who  you  are,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  no  von  dat  knows,"  replied  the  new 
comer. 

"*Haf  done  vid  too  much  questions,"  in 
terrupted  Farmer  Weitbreck.  "  I  haf  him 
asked  all.  He  stays  till  harvest  be  done. 
He  can  vork.  It  is  to  be  easy  see  he  can 
vork." 

John  did  not  like  the  appearance  of  things. 
"Too  much  mystery  here,"  he  thought. 
"  However,  it  is  not  long  he  will  be  here, 
and  he  will  be  in  the  fields  all  the  time  ; 
there  cannot  be  much  danger.  But  who  ever 
heard  of  a  man  whom  no  human  being 
knew  ? " 

As  they  sat  at  supper,  Farmer  Weitbreck 
and  his  wife  plied  Wilhelm  with  questions 
about  their  old  friends  in  Mayence.  He  was 
evidently  familiar  with  all  the  localities  and 


126  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

names  which  they  mentioned.  His  replies, 
however,  were  given  as  far  as  possible  in 
monosyllables,  and  he  spoke  no  word  volun 
tarily.  Sitting  with  his  head  bent  slightly 
forward,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  he  had 
the  expression  of  one  lost  in  thoughts  of  the 
gloomiest  kind. 

"Make  yourself  to  be  more  happy,  mein 
lad,"  said  the  farmer,  as  he  bade  him  good 
night  and  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 
"  You  haf  come  to  house  vere  is  German  be 
speaked,  and  is  Germany  in  hearts ;  dat  vill 
be  to  you  as  friends." 

A  strange  look  of  even  keener  pain  passed 
over  the  young  man's  face,  and  he  left  the 
room  hastily,  without  a  word  of  good-night. 

"  He 's  a  surly  brute  ! "  cried  John  ;  "  nice 
company  he  '11  be  in  the  field  !  I  believe  I  'd 
sooner  have  nobody  ! " 

"  I  think  he  has  seen  some  dreadful  trouble," 
said  Carlen.  "  I  wish  we  could  do  something 
for  him  ;  perhaps  his  friends  are  all  dead.  I 
think  that  must  be  it,  don't  you  think  so, 
mutter  ? " 

Frau  Weitbreck  was  incarnate  silence  and 
reticence.  These  traits  were  native  in  her, 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    I2/ 

and  had  been  intensified  to  an  abnormal 
extent  by  thirty  years  of  life  with  a  husband 
whose  temper  and  peculiarities  were  such  as 
to  make  silence  and  reticence  the  sole  condi 
tions  of  peace  and  comfort.  To  so  great  a 
degree  had  this  second  nature  of  the  good 
frau  been  developed,  that  she  herself  did  not 
now  know  that  it  was  a  second  nature  ;  there 
fore  it  stood  her  in  hand  as  well  as  if  she  had 
been  originally  born  to  it,  and  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  find  in  Lancaster  County  a 
more  placid  and  contented  wife  than  she. 
She  never  dreamed  that  her  custom  of  silent 
acquiescence  in  all  that  Gustavus  said  —  of 
waiting  in  all  cases,  small  and  great,  for  his 
decision  —  had  in  the  outset  been  born  of  rad 
ical  and  uncomfortable  disagreements  with 
him.  And  as  for  Gustavus  himself,  if  any 
body  had  hinted  to  him  that  his  frau  could 
think,  or  ever  had  thought,  any  word  or  deed 
of  his  other  than  right,  he  would  have  chuck 
led  complacently  at  that  person's  blind  igno 
rance  of  the  truth. 

"  Mein  frau,  she  is  goot,"  he  said  ;  "  goot 
frau,  goot  mutter.  American  fraus  not  goot 
so  she  ;  all  de  time  talk  and  no  vork.  Ameri- 


128  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

can  fraus,  American  mans,  are  sheep  in  dere 
house." 

But  in  regard  to  this  young  stranger,  Frau 
Weitbreck  seemed  strangely  stirred  from  her 
usual  phlegmatic  silence.  Carlen's  appeal  to 
her  had  barely  been  spoken,  when,  rising  in 
her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the  old 
woman  said  solemnly,  in  German,  — 

"  Yes,  Liebchen,  he  goes  with  the  eyes  like 
eyes  of  a  man  that  saw  always  the  dead.  It 
must  be  as  you  say,  that  all  whom  he  loves 
are  in  the  grave.  Poor  boy !  poor  boy  !  it  is 
now  that  one  must  be  to  him  mother  and 
father  and  brother." 

"  And  sister  too,"  said  Carlen,  warmly.  "  I 
will  be  his  sister." 

"  And  I  not  his  brother  till  he  gets  a  civ- 
iller  tongue  in  his  head,"  said  John. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  brother  I  haf  him  brought," 
interrupted  the  old  man.  "  Alvays  you  vim- 
men  are  too  soon  ;  it  may  be  he  are  goot,  it 
may  be  he  are  pad  ;  I  do  not  know.  It  is  to 
vork  I  haf  him  brought." 

"  Yes,"  echoed  Frau  Weitbreck ;  "  we  do 
not  know." 

It  was  not  so  easy  as  Carlen  and  her  mother 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    1 29 

had  thought,  to  be  like  mother  and  sister  to 
Wilhelm.  The  days  went  by,  and  still  he  was 
as  much  a  stranger  as  on  the  evening  of  his 
arrival.  He  never  voluntarily  addressed  any 
one.  To  all  remarks  or  even  questions  he 
replied  in  the  fewest  words  and  curtest 
phrases  possible.  A  smile  was  never  seen  on 
his  face.  He  sat  at  the  table  like  a  mute  at 
a  funeral,  ate  without  lifting  his  eyes,  and  si 
lently  rose  as  soon  as  his  own  meal  was  fin 
ished.  He  had  soon  selected  his  favorite 
seat  in  the  kitchen.  It  was  on  the  right- 
hand  side  of  the  big  fireplace,  in  a  corner. 
Here  he  sat  all  through  the  evenings,  carving, 
out  of  cows'  horns  or  wood,  boxes  and  small 
figures  such  as  are  made  by  the  peasants  in 
the  German  Tyrol.  In  this  work  he  had  a 
surprising  skill.  What  he  did  with  the  carv 
ings  when  finished,  no  one  knew.  One  night 
John  said  to  him, — 

"  I  do  not  see,  Wilhelm,  how  you  can  have 
so  steady  a  hand  after  holding  the  sickle  all 
day.  My  arm  aches,  and  my  hand  trembles  so 
that  I  can  but  just  carry  rny  cup  to  my  lips." 

Wilhelm  made  no  reply,  but  held  his  right 
hand  straight  out  at  arm's  length,  with  the 
9 


130  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

delicate  figure  he  was  carving  poised  on  his 
forefinger.  It  stood  as  steady  as  on  the  firm 
ground. 

Carlen  looked  at  him  admiringly.  "  It  is 
good  to  be  so  steady-handed,"  she  said  ;  "  you 
must  be  strong,  Wilhelm." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  haf  strong  ; "  and  went 
on  carving. 

Nothing  more  like  conversation  than  this 
was  ever  drawn  from  him.  Yet  he  seemed 
not  averse  to  seeing  people.  He  never  left 
the  kitchen  till  the  time  came  for  bed ;  but 
when  that  came  he  slipped  away  silent,  taking 
no  part  in  the  general  good-night  unless  he 
was  forced  to  do  so.  Sometimes  Carlen,  hav 
ing  said  jokingly  to  John,  "  Now,  I  will  make 
Wilhelm  say  good-night  to-night,"  succeeded 
in  surprising  him  before  he  could  leave  the 
room  ;  but  often,  even  when  she  had  thus 
planned,  he  contrived  to  evade  her,  and  was 
gone  before  she  knew  it. 

He  slept  in  a  small  chamber  in  the  barn,  —  a 
dreary  enough  little  place,  but  he  seemed  to 
find  it  all  sufficient.  He  had  no  possessions 
except  the  leather  pack  he  had  brought  on 
his  back.  This  lay  on  the  floor  unlocked ; 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    131 

and  when  the  good  Frau  Weitbreck,  persuad 
ing  herself  that  she  was  actuated  solely  by  a 
righteous,  motherly  interest  in  the  young 
man,  opened  it,  she  found  nothing  whatever 
there,  except  a  few  garments  of  the  common 
est  description,  —  no  book,  no  paper,  no  name 
on  any  article.  It  would  not  appear  possible 
that  a  man  of  so  decent  a  seeming  as  Wilhelm 
could  have  come  from  Germany  to  America 
with  so  few  personal  belongings.  Frau  Weit 
breck  felt  less  at  ease  in  her  mind  about  him 
after  she  examined  this  pack. 

He  had  come  straight  from  the  ship  to 
their  house,  he  had  said,  when  he  arrived; 
had  walked  on  day  after  day,  going  he  knew 
not  whither,  asking  mile  by  mile  for  work. 
He  did  not  even  know  one  State's  name  from 
another.  He  simply  chose  to  go  south  rather 
than  north,  —  always  south,  he  said. 

"  Why  ?  " 

He  did  not  know. 

He  was  indeed  strong.  The  sickle  was  in 
his  hand  a  plaything,  so  swift-swung  that  he 
seemed  to  be  doing  little  more  than  simply 
striding  up  and  down  the  field,  the  grain 
falling  to  right  and  left  at  his  steps.  From 


132  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

sunrise  to  sunset  he  worked  tirelessly.  The 
famous  Alf  had  never  done  so  much  in  a 
day.  Farmer  Weitbreck  chuckled  as  he 
looked  on. 

"  Vat  now  you  say  of  dat  Alf  ?  "  he  said 
triumphantly  to  John  ;  "  vork  he  as  dis  man  ? 
Oh,  but  he  make  swing  de  hook  ! " 

John  assented  unqualifiedly  to  this  praise 
of  Wilhelm's  strength  and  skill ;  but  never 
theless  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  he  said,  "  I  never  saw  his  equal  ; 
but  I  like  him  not.  What  carries  he  in  his 
heart  to  be  so  sour  ?  He  is  like  a  man  be 
witched.  I  know  not  if  there  be  such  a  thing 
as  to  be  sold  to  the  devil,  as  the  stories  say  ; 
but  if  there  be,  on  my  word,  I  think  Wilhelm 
has  made  some  such  bargain.  A  man  could 
not  look  worse  if  he  had  signed  himself  away." 

"  I  see  not  dat  he  haf  fear  in  his  face,"  re 
plied  the  old  man. 

"  No,"  said  John,  "  neither  do  I  see  fear. 
It  is  worse  than  fear.  I  would  like  to  see  his 
face  come  alive  with  a  fear.  He  gives  me 
cold  shivers  like  a  grave  underfoot.  I  shall  be 
glad  when  he  is  gone." 

Farmer  Weitbreck  laughed.     He  and  his 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    133 

son  were  likely  to  be  again  at  odds  on  the 
subject  of  a  laborer. 

"  But  he  vill  not  go.  I  haf  said  to  him  to 
stay  till  Christmas,  maybe  always." 

John's  surprise  was  unbounded. 

"To  stay!  Till  Christmas!"  he  cried. 
"  What  for  ?  What  do  we  need  of  a  man  in 
the  winter  ? " 

"  It  is  not  dat  to  feed  him  is  much,  and 
all  dat  he  make  vid  de  knife  is  mine.  It  is 
home  he  vants,  no  oder  ting ;  he  vork  not  for 
money." 

"  Father,"  said  John,  earnestly,  "  there 
must  be  something  wrong  about  that  man. 
I  have  thought  so  from  the  first.  Why  should 
he  work  for  nothing  but  his  board,  —  a  great 
strong  fellow  like  that,  that  could  make 
good  day's  wages  anywhere  ?  Don't  keep 
him  after  the  harvest  is  over.  I  can't  bear 
the  sight  of  him." 

"  Den  you  can  turn  de  eyes  to  your  head 
von  oder  way,"  retorted  his  father.  "  I  find 
him  goot  to  see ;  and,"  after  a  pause,  "  so  do 
Carlen." 

John  started.  "  Good  heavens,  father  !  " 
he  exclaimed. 


134  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  speak  by  de  heavens, 
mein  son  !  "  rejoined  the  old  man,  in  a  taunting 
tone.  "  I  tink  I  can  mine  own  vay,  vidout  you 
to  be  help.  I  was  not  yesterday  born  ! " 

John  was  gone.  Flight  was  his  usual  ref 
uge  when  he  felt  his  temper  becoming  too 
much  for  him  ;  but  now  his  steps  were  quick 
ened  by  an  impulse  of  terrible  fear.  Between 
him  and  his  sister  had  always  been  a  bond 
closer  than  is  wont  to  link  brother  and  sister. 
Only  one  year  apart  in  age,  they  had  grown 
up  together  in  an  intimacy  like  that  of  twins ; 
from  their  cradles  till  now  they  had  had 
their  sports,  tastes,  joys,  sorrows  in  common, 
not  a  secret  from  each  other  since  they  could 
remember.  At  least,  this  was  true  of  John  ; 
was  he  to  find  it  no  longer  true  of  Carlen  ? 
He  would  know,  and  that  right  speedily.  As 
by  a  flash  of  lightning  he  thought  he  saw  his 
father's  scheme,  —  if  Carlen  were  to  wed  this 
man,  this  strong  and  tireless  worker,  this  un 
known,  mysterious  worker,  who  wanted  only 
shelter  and  home  and  cared  not  for  money, 
what  an  invaluable  hand  would  be  gained  on 
the  farm  !  John  groaned  as  he  thought  to 
himself  how  little  anything  —  any  doubt,  any 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.   135 

misgiving,  perhaps  even  an  actual  danger  - 
would  in  his  father's  mind  outweigh  the  one 
fact  that  the  man  did  not  "  vork  for  money." 

As  he  walked  toward  the  house,  revolving 
these  disquieting  conjectures,  all  his  first  sus 
picion  and  antagonism  toward  Wilhelm  re 
vived  in  full  force,  and  he  was  in  a  mood  well 
calculated  to  distort  the  simplest  acts,  when 
he  suddenly  saw  sitting  in  the  square  stoop 
at  the  door  the  two  persons  who  filled  his 
thoughts,  Wilhelm  and  Caiien,  —  Wilhelm 
steadily  at  work  as  usual  at  his  carving,  his 
eyes  closely  fixed  on  it,  his  figure,  as  was  its 
wont,  rigidly  still  ;  and  Carlen,  —  ah  !  it  was 
an  unlucky  moment  John  had  taken  to  search 
out  the  state  of  Carlen's  feeling  toward  Wil 
helm,  —  Carlen  sitting  in  a  posture  of  dreamy 
reverie,  one  hand  lying  idle  in  her  lap  holding 
her  knitting,  the  ball  rolling  away  unnoticed 
on  the  ground  ;  her  other  arm  thrown  care 
lessly  over  the  railing  of  the  stoop,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  Wilhelm's  bowed  head. 

John  stood  still  and  watched  her,  —  watched 
her  long.  She  did  not  move.  She  was  al 
most  as  rigidly  still  as  Wilhelm  himself.  Her 
eyes  did  not  leave  his  face.  One  might  safely 


136  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

sit  in  that  way  by  the  hour  and  gaze  unde 
tected  at  Wilhelm.  He  rarely  looked  up  ex 
cept  when  he  was  addressed. 

After  standing  thus  a  few  moments  John 
turned  away,  bitter  and  sick  at  heart.  What 
had  he  been  about,  that  he  had  not  seen  this  ? 
He,  the  loving  comrade  brother,  to  be  slower 
of  sight  than  the  hard,  grasping  parent ! 

"  I  will  ask  mother,"  he  thought.  "  I  can't 
ask  Carlen  now  !  It  is  too  late." 

He  found  his  mother  in  the  kitchen,  busy 
getting  the  bountiful  supper  which  was  a  daily 
ordinance  in  the  Weitbreck  religion.  To 
John's  sharpened  perceptions  the  fact  that 
Carlen  was  not  as  usual  helping  in  this  labor 
loomed  up  into  significance. 

"  Why  does  not  Carlen  help  you,  mutter?" 
he  said  hastily.  "  What  is  she  doing  there, 
idling  with  Wilhelm  in  the  stoop  ?  " 

Frau  Weitbreck  smiled.  "  It  is  not  alvays 
to  vork,  ven  one  is  young,"  she  said.  "  I  haf 
not  forget!"  And  she  nodded  her  head 
meaningly. 

John  clenched  his  hands.  Where  had  he 
been  ?  Who  had  blinded  him  ?  How  had 
all  this  come  about,  so  soon  and  without  his 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    137 

knowledge  ?     Were  his  father  and  his  mother 
mad  ?     He  thought  they  must  be. 

"  It  is  a  shame  for  that  Wilhelm  to  so  much 
as  put  his  eyes  on  Carlen's  face,"  he  cried. 
"  I  think  we  are  fools  ;  what  know  we  about 
him  ?  I  doubt  him  in  and  out.  I  wish  he 
had  never  darkened  our  doors." 

Frau  Weitbreck  glanced  cautiously  at  the 
open  door.  She  was  frying  sweet  cakes  in 
the  boiling  lard.  Forgetting  everything  in 
her  fear  of  being  overheard,  she  went  softly, 
with  the  dripping  skimmer  in  her  hand,  across 
the  kitchen,  the  fat  falling  on  her  shining 
floor  at  every  step,  and  closed  the  door. 
Then  she  came  close  to  her  son,  and  said  in 
a  whisper,  "  The  fader  think  it  is  goot."  At 
John's  angry  exclamation  she  raised  her  hand 
in  warning. 

"  Do  not  loud  spraken,"  she  whispered  ; 
"  Carlen  will  hear." 

«  Well,  then,  she  shall  hear  !  "  cried  John, 
half  beside  himself.  "  It  is  high  time  she  did 
hear  from  somebody  besides  you  and  father  ! 
I  reckon  I  've  got  something  to  say  about  this 

thing,  too,  if  I  'm  her  brother.     By ,  no 

tramp  like  that  is  going  to  marry  my  sister 


I38  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

without  I  know  more  about  him  !  "  And  be 
fore  the  terrified  old  woman  could  stop  him, 
he  had  gone  at  long  strides  across  the  kitchen, 
through  the  best  room,  and  reached  the  stoop, 
saying  in  a  loud  tone  :  "  Carlen  !  I  want  to 
see  you." 

Carlen  started  as  one  roused  from  sleep. 
Seeing  her  ball  lying  at  a  distance  on  the 
ground,  she  ran  to  pick  it  up,  and  with  scarlet 
cheeks  and  uneasy  eyes  turned  to  her  brother. 

"  Yes,  John,"  she  said,  "  I  am  coming." 

Wilhelm  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  or  betray 
by  any  change  of  feature  that  he  had  heard 
the  sound  or  perceived  the  motion.  As 
Carlen  passed  him  her  eyes  involuntarily 
rested  on  his  bowed  head,  a  world  of  pity, 
perplexity,  in  the  glance.  John  saw  it,  and 
frowned. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said  sternly,  —  "  come 
down  in  the  pasture  ;  I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

Carlen  looked  up  apprehensively  into  his 
face ;  never  had  she  seen  there  so  stern  a 
look. 

"  I  must  help  mutter  with  the  supper,"  she 
said,  hesitating. 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  R UTTER.    139 

John  laughed  scornfully.  "  You  were  help 
ing  with  the  supper,  I  suppose,  sitting  out 
with  yon  tramp!"  And  he  pointed  to  the 

stoop. 

Carlen  had,  with  all  her  sunny  cheerfulness, 
a  vein  of  her  father's  temper.  Her  face  har 
dened,  and  her  blue  eyes  grew  darker. 

"  Why  do  you  call  Wilhelm  a  tramp,"  she 
said  coldly. 

"  What  is  he  then,  if  he  is  not  a  tramp  ? " 
retorted  John. 

"  He  is  no  tramp,"  she  replied,  still  more 
doggedly. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  him  ? "  said 
John. 

Carlen  made  no  reply.  Her  silence  irri 
tated  John  more  than  any  words  could  have 
done  ;  and  losing  self-control,  losing  sight  of 
prudence,  he  poured  out  on  her  a  torrent  of 
angry  accusation  and  scornful  reproach. 

She  stood  still,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 
Even  in  his  hot  wrath,  John  noticed  this  un 
wonted  downcast  look,  and  taunted  her  with 
it. 

"  You  have  even  caught  his  miserable  hang 
dog  trick  of  not  looking  anybody  in  the  face," 


140  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

he  cried.     "  Look  up  now !  look  me  in  the 
eye,  and  say  what  you  mean  by  all  this." 

Thus  roughly  bidden,  Carlen  raised  her 
blue  eyes  and  confronted  her  brother  with  a 
look  hardly  less  angry  than  his  own. 

"It  is  you  who  have  to  say  to  me  what 
all  this  means  that  you  have  been  saying/' 
she  cried.  "I  think  you  are  out  of  your 
senses.  I  do  not  know  what  has  happened 
to  you."  And  she  turned  to  walk  back  to 
the  house. 

John  seized  her  shoulders  in  his  brawny 
hands,  and  whirled  her  round  till  she  faced 
him  again. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth  !  "  he  said  fiercely ;  "  do 
you  love  this  Wilhelm  ? " 

Carlen  opened  her  lips  to  reply.  At  that 
second  a  step  was  heard,  and  looking  up  they 
saw  Wilhelm  himself  coming  toward  them, 
walking  at  his  usual  slow  pace,  his  head  sunk 
on  his  breast,  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  Great 
waves  of  blushes  ran  in  tumultuous  flood  up 
Carlen's  neck,  cheeks,  forehead.  John  took 
his  hands  from  her  shoulders,  and  stepped  back 
with  a  look  of  disgust  and  a  smothered  ejac 
ulation.  Wilhelm,  hearing  the  sound,  looked 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.   141 

up,  regarded   them   with   a   cold,   unchanged 
eye,  and  turned  in  another  direction. 

The  color  deepened  on  Carlen's  face.  In 
a  hard  and  bitter  tone  she  said,  pointing  with 
a  swift  gesture  to  Wilhelm's  retreating  form  : 
"  You  can  see  for  yourself  that  there  is  nothing 
between  us.  I  do  not  know  what  craze  has 
got  into  your  head."  And  she  walked  away, 
this  time  unchecked  by  her  brother.  He 
needed  no  further  replies  in  words.  Tokens 
stronger  than  any  speech  had  answered  him. 
Muttering  angrily  to  himself,  he  went  on  down 
to  the  pasture  after  the  cows.  It  was  a  beau 
tiful  field,  more  like  New  England  than  Penn 
sylvania  ;  a  brook  ran  zigzagging  through  it, 
and  here  and  there  in  the  land  were  sharp 
lifts  where  rocks  cropped  out,  making  minia 
ture  cliffs  overhanging  some  portions  of  the 
brook's  course.  Gray  lichens  and  green 
mosses  grew  on  these  rocks,  and  belts  of  wild 
flag  and  sedges  surrounded  their  base.  The 
cows,  in  a  warm  day,  used  to  stand  knee-deep 
there,  in  shade  of  the  rocks. 

It  was  a  favorite  place  of  Wilhelm's.  He 
sometimes  lay  on  the  top  of  one  of  these 
rocks  the  greater  part  of  the  night,  looking 


142  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

down  into  the  gliding  water  or  up  into  the 
sky.  Carlen  from  her  window  had  more  than 
once  seen  him  thus,  and  passionately  longed 
to  go  down  and  comfort  his  lonely  sorrow. 

It  was  indeed  true,  as  she  had  said  to  her 
brother,  that  there  was  "  nothing  between  " 
her  and  Wilhelm.  Never  a  word  had  passed  ; 
never  a  look  or  tone  to  betray  that  he  knew 
whether  she  were  fair  or  not,  —  whether  she 
lived  or  not.  She  came  and  went  in  his  pres 
ence,  as  did  all  others,  with  no  more  apparent 
relation  to  the  currents  of  his  strange  veiled 
existence  than  if  they  or  he  belonged  to  a 
phantom  world.  But  it  was  also  true  that 
never  since  the  first  day  of  his  mysterious 
coming  had  Wilhelm  been  long  absent  from 
Carlen's  thoughts  ;  and  she  did  indeed  find 
him  —  as  her  father's  keen  eyes,  sharpened  by 
greed,  had  observed  —  good  to  look  upon. 
That  most  insidious  of  love's  allies,  pity,  had 
stormed  the  fortress  of  Carlen's  heart,  and 
carried  it  by  a  single  charge.  What  could  a 
girl  give,  do,  or  be,  that  would  be  too  much  for 
one  so  stricken,  so  lonely  as  was  Wilhelm !  The 
melancholy  beauty  of  his  face,  his  lithe  figure, 
his  great  strength,  all  combined  to  heighten 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    143 

this  impression,  and  to  fan  the  flames  of  the 
passion  in  Carlen's  virgin  soul.  It  was  in 
deed,  as  John  had  sorrowfully  said  to  himself, 
"too  late"  to  speak  to  Carlen. 

As  John  stood  now  at  the  pasture  bars, 
waiting  for  the  herd  of  cows,  slow  winding  up 
the  slope  from  the  brook,  he  saw  Wilhelm  on 
the  rocks  below.  He  had  thrown  himself 
down  on  his  back,  and  lay  there  with  his 
arms  crossed  on  his  breast.  Presently  he 
clasped  both  hands  over  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut 
out  a  sight  that  he  could  no  longer  bear. 
Something  akin  to  pity  stirred  even  in  John's 
angry  heart  as  he  watched  him. 

"  What  can  it  be,"  he  said,  "  that  makes 
him  hate  even  the  sky  ?  It  may  be  it  is  a 
sweetheart  he  has  lost,  and  he  is  one  of  that 
strange  kind  of  men  who  can  love  but  once  ; 
and  it  is  loving  the  dead  that  makes  him  so 
like  one  dead  himself.  Poor  Carlen  !  I  think 
myself  he  never  so  much  as  sees  her." 

A  strange  reverie,  surely,  for  the  brother 
who  had  so  few  short  moments  ago  been  an 
grily  reproaching  his  sister  for  the  disgrace 
and  shame  of  caring  for  this  tramp.  But  the 
pity  was  short-lived  in  John's  bosom.  His 


144  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

inborn  distrust  and  antagonism  to  the  man 
were  too  strong  for  any  .gentler  sentiment 
toward  him  to  live  long  by  their  side.  And 
when  the  family  gathered  at  the  supper-table 
he  fixed  upon  Wilhelm  so  suspicious  and  hos 
tile  a  gaze  that  even  Wilhelm's  absent  mind 
perceived  it,  and  he  in  turn  looked  inquiringly 
at  John,  a  sudden  bewilderment  apparent  in 
his  manner.  It  disappeared,  however,  almost 
immediately,  dying  away  in  his  usual  melan 
choly  absorption.  It  had  produced  scarce  a 
ripple  on  the  monotonous  surface  of  his 
habitual  gloom.  But  Carlen  had  perceived 
all,  both  the  look  on  John's  face  and  the  be 
wilderment  on  Wilhelm's  ;  and  it  roused  in 
her  a  resentment  so  fierce  toward  John,  she 
could  not  forbear  showing  it.  "  How  cruel ! " 
she  thought.  "As  if  the  poor  fellow  had  not 
all  he  could  bear  already  without  being  treated 
unkindly  by  us!"  And  she  redoubled  her  ef 
forts  to  win  Wilhelm's  attention  and  divert 
his  thoughts,  all  in  vain  ;  kindness  and  un- 
kindness  glanced  off  alike,  powerless,  from 
the  veil  in  which  he  was  wrapped. 

John  sat  by  with  roused  attention  and  shar 
pened  perception,  noting  all.     Had  it  been  all 


MYSTERY  OF  W1LHELM  RUTTER.    145 

along  like  this  ?  Where  had  his  eyes  been 
for  the  past  month  ?  Had  he  too  been  under 
a  spell  ?  It  looked  like  it.  He  groaned  in 
spirit  as  he  sat  silently  playing  with  his  food, 
not  eating  ;  and  when  his  father  said,  "  Why 
haf  you  not  appetite,  Johan  ? "  he  rose  ab 
ruptly,  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  leaving 
the  table  without  a  word  went  out  and  down 
again  into  the  pasture,  where  the  dewy  grass 
and  the  quivering  stars  in  the  brook  shim 
mered  in  the  pale  light  of  a  young  moon. 
To  John,  also,  the  mossy  rocks  in  this  pas 
ture  were  a  favorite  spot  for  rest  and  medi 
tation.  Since  the  days  when  he  and  Carlen 
had  fished  from  their  edges,  with  bent  pins 
and  yarn,  for  minnows,  he  had  loved  the  place  : 
they  had  spent  happy  hours  enough  there  to 
count  up  into  days  ;  and  not  the  least  among 
the  innumerable  annoyances  and  irritations 
of  which  he  had  been  anxious  in  regard  to 
Wilhelm  was  the  fact  that  he  too  had  per 
ceived  the  charm  of  the  field,  and  chosen  it 
for  his  own  melancholy  retreat. 

As  he  seated  himself  on  one  of  the  rocks, 
he  saw  a  figure  gliding  swiftly  down  the  hill. 
It  was  Carlen. 

10 


146  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

"  She  thinks  it  is  Wilhelm,"  he  said ;  and 
again  hot  anger  stirred  in  him. 

As  she  drew  near  he  looked  at  her  without 
speaking,  but  the  loving  girl  was  not  re 
pelled.  Springing  lightly  to  the  rock,  she 
threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  kissing 
him  said:  "I  saw  you  coming  down  here, 
John,  and  I  ran  after  you.  Do  not  be  angry 
with  me,  brother ;  it  breaks  my  heart." 

A  sudden  revulsion  of  shame  for  his  un 
just  suspicion  filled  John  with  tenderness. 

"Mein  Schwester,"  he  said  fondly,  —  they 
had  always  the  habit  of  using  the  German 
tongue  for  fond  epithets,  —  "mem  Schwester 
klein,  I  love  you  so  much  I  cannot  help  being 
wretched  when  I  see  you  in  danger,  but  I 
am  not  angry." 

Nestling  herself  close  by  his  side,  Carlen 
looked  over  into  the  water. 

"This  is  the  very  rock  I  fell  off  of  that 
day,  do  you  remember?"  she  said;  "and 
how  wet  you  got  fishing  me  out !  And  oh, 
what  an  awful  beating  father  gave  you  !  and  I 
always  thought  it  was  wicked,  for  if  you  had 
not  pulled  me  out  I  should  have  drowned." 
"  It  was  for  letting  you  fall  in  he  beat  me," 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    147 

laughed  John ;  and  they  both  grew  tender  and 
merry,  recalling  the  babyhood  times. 

"  How  long,  long  ago  !  "  cried  Carlen. 

"  It  seems  only  a  day,"  said  John. 

"  I  think  time  goes  faster  for  a  man  than 
for  a  woman,"  sighed  Carlen.  "  It  is  a  shorter 
day  in  the  fields  than  in  the  house." 

"Are  you  not  content,  my  sister?"  said 
John. 

Carlen  was  silent. 

"  You  have  always  seemed  so,"  he  said 
reproachfully. 

"  It  is  always  the  same*  John,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  Each  day  like  every  other  day.  I 
would  like  it  to  be  some  days  different." 

John  sighed.  He  knew  of  what  this  new 
unrest  was  born.  He  longed  to  begin  to 
speak  of  Wilhelm,  and  yet  he  knew  not  how. 
Now  that,  after  longer  reflection,  he  had 
become  sure  in  his  own  mind  that  Wilhelm 
cared  nothing  for  his  sister,  he  felt  an  in 
stinctive  shrinking  from  recognizing  to  him 
self,  or  letting  it  be  recognized  between  them, 
that  she  unwooed  had  learned  to  love.  His 
heart  ached  with  dread  of  the  suffering  which 
might  be  in  store  for  her. 


148  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

Carlen  herself  cut  the  gordian  knot. 

"Brother,"  she  whispered,  "why  do  you 
think  Wilhelm  is  not  good  ? " 

"  I  said  not  that,  Carlen,"  he  replied  eva 
sively.  "  I  only  say  we  know  nothing  ;  and 
it  is  dangerous  to  trust  where  one  knows 
nothing." 

"  It  would  not  be  trust  if  we  knew,"  an 
swered  the  loyal  girl.  "  I  believe  he  is  good  ; 
but,  John,  John,  what  misery  in  his  eyes  ! 
Saw  you  ever  anything  like  it  ? " 

"  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  never.  Has  he  never 
told  you  anything  about  himself,  Carlen  ?  " 

"Once,"  she  answered,  "I  took  courage  to 
ask  him  if  he  had  relatives  in  Germany ;  and 
he  said  no ;  and  I  exclaimed  then,  '  What,  all 
dead  ! '  '  All  dead/  he  answered,  in  such  a 
voice  I  hardly  dared  speak  again,  but  I  did. 
I  said :  '  Well,  one  might  have  the  terrible 
sorrow  to  lose  all  one's  relatives.  It  needs 
only  that  three  should  die,  my  father  and 
mother  and  my  brother,  —  only  three,  and 
two  are  already  old,  —  and  I  should  have  no 
relatives  myself ;  but  if  one  is  left  without 
relatives,  there  are  always  friends,  thank 
God!'  And  he  looked  at  me,  —  he  never 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    149 

looks  at  one,  you  know ;  but  he  looked  at 
me  then  as  if  I  had  done  a  sin  to  speak  the 
word,  and  he  said,  '  I  have  no  friends.  They 
are  all  dead  too/  and  then  went  away !  Oh, 
brother,  why  cannot  we  win  him  out  of  this 
grief  ?  We  can  be  good  friends  to  him ; 
can  you  not  find  out  for  me  what  it  is  ? " 

It  was  a  cruel  weapon  to  use,  but  on  the 
instant  John  made  up  his  mind  to  use  it.  It 
might  spare  Carlen  grief,  in  the  end. 

"  I  have  thought,"  he  said,  "  that  it  might 
be  for  a  dead  sweetheart  he  mourned  thus. 
There  are  men,  you  know,  who  love  that  way 
and  never  smile  again." 

Short-sighted  John,  to  have  dreamed  that 
he  could  forestall  any  conjecture  in  the  girl's 
heart ! 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,"  she  answered 
meekly ;  "  it  would  seem  as  if  it  could  be 
nothing  else.  But,  John,  if  she  be  really 
dead  — "  Carlen  did  not  finish  the  sen 
tence  ;  it  was  not  necessary. 

After  a  silence  she  spoke  again  :  "  Dear 
John,  if  you  could  be  more  friendly  with  him 
I  think  it  might  be  different.  He  is  your 
age.  Father  and  mother  are  too  old,  and  to 


150  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

me  he  will  not  speak."  She  sighed  deeply 
as  she  spoke  these  last  words,  and  went  on : 
"  Of  course,  if  it  is  for  a  dead  sweetheart 
that  he  is  grieving  thus,  it  is  only  natural 
that  the  sight  of  women  should  be  to  him 
worse  than  the  sight  of  men.  But  it  is  very 
seldom,  John,  that  a  man  will  mourn  his 
whole  life  for  a  sweetheart ;  is  it  not,  John  ? 
Why,  men  marry  again,  almost  always,  even 
when  it  is  a  wife  that  they  have  lost ;  and  a 
sweetheart  is  not  so  much  as  a  wife." 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  the  pitiless  John, 
"that  a  man  is  quicker  healed  of  grief  for 
a  wife  than  for  one  he  had  thought  to  wed, 
but  lost." 

"  You  are  a  man,"  said  Carlen.  "  You  can 
tell  if  that  would  be  true." 

"  No,  I  cannot,"  he  answered,  "  for  I  have 
loved  no  woman  but  <you,  my  sister ;  and  on 
my  word  I  think  I  will  be'  in  no  haste  to, 
either.  It  brings  misery,  it  seems  to  me." 

If  Carlen  had  spoken  her  thought  at  these 
words,  she  would  have  said,  "  Yes,  it  brings 
misery ;  but  even  so  it  is  better  than  joy." 
But  Carlen  was  ashamed ;  afraid  also.  She 
had  passed  now  into  a  new  life,  whither  her 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  R&TTER.   151 

brother,  she  perceived,  could  not  follow.  She 
could  barely  reach  his  hand  across  the  boun 
dary  line  which  parted  them. 

"  I  hope  you  will  love  some  one,  John," 
she  said.  "  You  would  be  happy  with  a 
wife.  You  are  old  enough  to  have  a  home 
of  your  own." 

"Only  a  year  older  than  you,  my  sister," 
he  rejoined. 

"  I  too  am  old  enough  to  have  a  home  of 
my  own,"  she  said,  with  a  gentle  dignity  of 
tone,  which  more  impressed  John  with  a 
sense  of  the  change  in  Carlen  than  all  else 
which  had  been  said. 

It  was  time  to  return  to  the  house.  As 
he  had  done  when  he  was  ten,  and  she  nine, 
John  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  steepest 
rock,  with  upstretched  arms,  by  the  help  of 
which  Carlen  leaped  lightly  down. 

"  We  are  not  children  any  more,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  laugh. 

"  More  's  the  pity  ! "  said  John,  half  lightly, 
half  sadly,  as  they  went  on  hand  in  hand. 

When  they  reached  the  bars,  Carlen  paused. 
Withdrawing  her  hand  from  John's  and  lay 
ing  it  on  his  shoulder,  she  said :  "  Brother, 


152  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

will  you  not  try  to  find  out  what  is  Wilhelm's 
grief?  Can  you  not  try  to  be  friends  with 
him?" 

John  made  no  answer.  It  was  a  hard 
thing  to  promise. 

"For  my  sake,  brother,"  said  the  girl. 
"  I  have  spoken  to  no  one  else  but  you.  I 
would  die  before  any  one  else  should  know  ; 
even  my  mother." 

John  could  not  resist  this.  "  Yes,"  he  said  ; 
"  I  will  try.  It  will  be  hard  ;  but  I  will  try 
my  best,  Carlen.  I  will  have  a  talk  with 
Wilhelm  to-morrow." 

And  the  brother  and  sister  parted,  he  only 
the  sadder,  she  far  happier,  for  their  talk. 
"To-morrow,"  she  thought,  "I  will  know! 
To-morrow  !  oh,  to-morrow  !  "  And  she  fell 
asleep  more  peacefully  than  had  been  her 
wont  for  many  nights. 

On  the  morrow  it  chanced  that  John  and 
Wilhelm  went  separate  ways  to  work  and 
did  not  meet  until  noon.  In  the  afternoon 
Wilhelm  was  sent  on  an  errand  to  a  farm 
some  five  miles  away,  and  thus  the  day  passed 
without  John's  having  found  any  opportun 
ity  for  the  promised  talk.  Carlen  perceived 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    153 

with  keen  disappointment  this  frustration  of 
his  purpose,  but  comforted  herself,  thinking, 
with  the  swift  forerunning  trust  of  youth: 
"  To-morrow  he  will  surely  get  a  chance. 
To-morrow  he  will  have  something  to  tell 
me.  To-morrow ! " 

When  Wilhelm  returned  from  this  errand, 
he  came  singing  up  the  road.  Carlen  heard 
the  voice  and  looked  out  of  the  window  in 
amazement.  Never  before  had  a  note  of 
singing  been  heard  from  Wilhelm's  voice. 
She  could  not  believe  her  ears  ;  neither  her 
eyes,  when  she  saw  him  walking  swiftly, 
almost  running,  erect,  his  head  held  straight, 
his  eyes  gazing  free  and  confident  before 
him. 

What  had  happened  ?  What  could  have 
happened?  Now,  for  the  first  time,  Carlen 
saw  the  full  beauty  of  his  face  ;  it  wore  an 
exultant  look  as  of  one  set  free,  triumphant. 
He  leaped  lightly  over  the  bars  ;  he  stooped 
and  fondled  the  dog,  speaking  to  him  in  a 
merry  tone ;  then  he  whistled,  then  broke 
again  into  singing  a  gay  German  song.  Car 
len  was  stupefied  with  wonder.  Who  was 
this  new  man  in  the  body  of  Wilhelm  ? 


154  BETV/EEN  WHILES. 

Where  had  disappeared  the  man  of  slow- 
moving  figure,  bent  head,  downcast  eyes, 
gloom-stricken  face,  whom  until  that  hour 
she  had  known?  Carlen  clasped  her  hands 
in  an  agony  of  bewilderment. 

"  If  he  has  found  his  sweetheart,  I  shall 
die,"  she  thought.  "  How  could  it  be  ?  A 
letter,  perhaps  ?  A  message  ?  "  She  dreaded 
to  see  him.  She  lingered  in  her  room  till  it 
was  past  the  supper  hour,  dreading  what  she 
knew  not,  yet  knew.  When  she  went  down 
the  four  were  seated  at  supper.  As  she 
opened  the  door  roars  of  laughter  greeted  her, 
and  the  first  sight  she  saw  was  Wilhelm's 
face,  full  of  vivacity,  excitement.  He  was 
telling  a  jesting  story,  at  which  even  her 
mother  was  heartily  laughing.  Her  father 
had  laughed  till  the  tears  were  rolling  down 
his  cheeks.  John  was  holding  his  sides. 
Wilhelm  was  a  mimic,  it  appeared ;  he  was 
imitating  the  ridiculous  speech,  gait,  gestures, 
of  a  man  he  had  seen  in  the  village  that 
afternoon. 

"  I  sent  you  to  village  sooner  as  dis,  if  I 
haf  known  vat  you  are  like  ven  you  come 
back,"  said  Farmer  Weitbreck,  wiping  his  eyes. 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    155 

And  John  echoed  his  father.  "  Upon  my 
word,  Wilhelm,  you  are  a  good  actor.  Why 
have  you  kept  your  light  under  a  bushel  so 
long  ?  "  And  John  looked  at  him  with  a  new 
interest  and  liking.  If  this  were  the  true 
Wilhelm,  he  might  welcome  him  indeed  as  a 
brother. 

Carlen  alone  looked  grave,  anxious,  un 
happy.  She  could  not  laugh.  Tale  after  tale, 
jest  after  jest,  fell  from  Wilhelm's  lips.  Such 
a  story-teller  never  before  sat  at  the  Weit- 
breck  board.  The  old  kitchen  never  echoed 
with  such  laughter. 

Finally  John  exclaimed  :  "  Man  alive,  where 
have  you  kept  yourself  all  this  time  ?  Have 
you  been  ill  till  now,  that  you  hid  your  tongue  ? 
What  has  cured  you  in  a  day  ? " 

Wilhelm  laughed  a  laugh  so  ringing,  it 
made  him  seem  like  a  boy. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  ill  till  to-day,"  he  said  ; 
"and  now  I  am  well."  And  he  rattled  on 
again,  with  his  merry  talk. 

Carlen  grew  cold  with  fear ;  surely  this 
meant  but  one  thing.  Nothing  else,  nothing 
less,  could  have  thus  in  an  hour  rolled  away 
the  burden  of  his  sadness. 


156  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

Later  in  the  evening  she  said  timidly, 
"  Did  you  hear  any  news  in  the  village  this 
afternoon,  Wilhelm  ? " 

"No;  no  news,"  he  said.  "I  had  heard 
no  news." 

As  he  said  this  a  strange  look  flitted  swiftly 
across  his  face,  and  was  gone  before  any  eye 
but  a  loving  woman's  had  noted  it.  It  did  not 
escape  Carlen's,  and  she  fell  into  a  reverie 
of  wondering  what  possible  double  meaning 
could  have  underlain  his  words. 

"  Did  you  know  Mr.  Dietman  in  Germany  ? " 
she  asked.  This  was  the  name  of  the  farmer 
to  whose  house  he  had  been  sent  on  an  er 
rand.  They  were  new-comers  into  the  town, 
since  spring. 

"  No ! "  replied  Wilhelm,  with  another 
strange,  sharp  glance  at  Carlen.  "  I  saw  him 
not  before." 

"  Have  they  children  ? "  she  continued. 
"Are  they  old?" 

"  No ;  young,"  he  answered.  "  They  haf 
one  child,  little  baby." 

Carlen  could  not  contrive  any  other  ques 
tions  to  ask.  "  It  must  have  been  a  letter," 
she  thought ;  and  her  face  grew  sadder. 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  R UTTER.    157 

It  was  a  late  bedtime  when  the  family 
parted  for  the  night.  The  astonishing  change 
in  Wilhelm's  manner  was  now  even  more  ap 
parent  than  it  had  yet  been.  Instead  of  slip 
ping  off,  as  was  his  usual  habit,  without 
exchanging  a  good-night  with  any  one,  he  in 
sisted  on  shaking  hands  with  each,  still  talk 
ing  and  laughing  with  gay  and  affectionate 
words,  and  repeating,  over  and  again,  "  Good 
night,  good-night."  Farmer  Weitbreck  was 
carried  out  of  himself  with  pleasure  at  all  this, 
and  holding  Wilhelm's  hand  fast  in  his,  shak 
ing  it  heartily,  and  clapping  him  on  the 
shoulder,  he  exclaimed  in  fatherly  familiarity : 
"  Dis  is  goot,  mein  son  !  dis  is  goot.  Now 
are  you  von  of  us."  And  he  glanced  mean 
ingly  at  John,  who  smiled  back  in  secret  in 
telligence.  As  he  did  so  there  went  like  a 
flash  through  his  mind  the  question,  "  Can 
Carlen  have  spoken  with  him  to-day  ?  Can 
that  be  it  ? "  But  a  look  at  Carlen's  pale, 
perplexed  face  quickly  dissipated  this  idea. 
"  She  looks  frightened,"  thought  John.  "  I 
do  not  much  wonder.  I  will  get  a  word  with 
her."  But  Carlen  had  gone  before  he  missed 
her.  Running  swiftly  upstairs,  she  locked  the 


158  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

door  of  her  room,  and  threw  herself  on  her 
knees  at  her  open  window.  Presently  she 
saw  Wilhelm  going  down  to  the  brook.  She 
watched  his  every  motion.  First,  he  walked 
slowly  up  and  down  the  entire  length  of  the 
field,  following  the  brook's  course  closely, 
stopping  often  and  bending  over,  picking 
flowers.  A  curious  little  white  flower  called 
"  Ladies'-Tress  "  grew  there  in  great  abun 
dance,  and  he  often  brought  bunches  of  it 
to  her. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not  for  me  this  time,"  thought 
Carlen,  and  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 
After  a  time  Wilhelm  ceased  gathering  the 
flowers,  and  seated  himself  on  his  favorite 
rock,  —  the  same  one  where  John  and  Carlen 
had  sat  the  night  before.  "  Will  he  stay  there 
all  night  ? "  thought  the  unhappy  girl,  as  she 
watched  him.  "  He  is  so  full  of  joy  he  does 
not  want  to  sleep.  What  will  become  of  me ! 
what  will  become  of  me  !  " 

At  last  Wilhelm  arose  and  came  toward 
the  house,  bringing  the  bunch  of  flowers  in 
his  hand.  At  the  pasture  bars  he  paused, 
and  looked  back  over  the  scene.  It  was  a 
beautiful  picture,  the  moon  making  it  light  as 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    159 

day;  even  from  Carlen's  window  could  be 
seen  the  sparkle  of  the  brook. 

As  he  turned  to  go  to  the  barn  his  head 
sank  on  his  breast,  his  steps  lagged.  He 
wore  again  the  expression  of  gloomy  thought. 
A  new  fear  arose  in  Carlen's  breast.  Was 
he  mad  ?  Had  the  wild  hilarity  of  his  speech 
and  demeanor  in  the  evening  been  merely  a 
new  phase  of  disorder  in  an  unsettled  brain  ? 
Even  in  this  was  a  strange,  sad  comfort  to 
Carlen.  She  would  rather  have  him  mad, 
with  alternations  of  insane  joy  and  gloom, 
than  know  that  he  belonged  to  another. 
Long  after  he  had  disappeared  in  the  door 
way  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  which  led  to  his 
sleeping-place  in  the  barn-loft,  she  remained 
kneeling  at  the  window,  watching  to  see  if  he 
came  out  again.  Then  she  crept  into  bed, 
and  lay  tossing,  wakeful,  and  anxious  till  near 
dawn.  She  had  but  just  fallen  asleep  when 
she  was  aroused  by  cries.  It  was  John's  voice. 
He  was  calling  loudly  at  the  window  of  their 
mother's  bedroom  beneath  her  own. 

"  Father  !  father  !  Get  up,  quick  !  Come 
out  to  the  barn  !  " 

Then  followed   confused  words  she  could 


160  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

not  understand.  Leaning  from  her  window 
she  called:  "What  is  it,  John?  What  has 
happened  ? "  But  he  was  already  too  far  on 
his  way  back  to  the  barn  to  hear  her. 

A  terrible  presentiment  shot  into  her  mind 
of  some  ill  to  Wilhelm.  Vainly  she  wrestled 
with  it.  Why  need  she  think  everything  that 
happened  must  be  connected  with  him  ?  It 
was  not  yet  light ;  she  could  not  have  slept 
many  minutes.  With  trembling  hands  she 
dressed,  and  running  swiftly  down  the  stairs 
was  at  the  door  just  as  her  father  appeared 
there. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it,  father?"  she 
cried.  "  What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Go  back  !  "  he  said  in  an  unsteady  voice. 
"  It  is  nothing.  Go  back  to  bed.  It  is  not 
for  vimmins !  " 

Then  Carlen  was  sure  it  was  some  ill  to 
Wilhelm,  and  with  a  loud  cry  she  darted  to 
the  barn,  and  flew  up  the  stairway  leading 
to  his  room. 

John,  hearing  her  steps,  confronted  her  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"  Good  God,  Carlen  !  "  he  cried,  "  go  back  ! 
You  must  not  come  here.  Where  is  father  ? " 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    l6l 

"  I  will  come  in ! "  she  answered  wildly, 
trying  to  force  her  way  past  him.  "  I  will 
come  in.  You  shall  not  keep  me  out.  What 
has  happened  to  him  ?  Let  me  by  ! "  And 
she  wrestled  in  her  brother's  strong  arms 
with  strength  almost  equal  to  his. 

"  Carlen  !  You  shall  not  come  in  !  You 
shall  not  see  !  "  he  cried. 

"Shall  not  see!"  she  shrieked.  "Is  he 
dead?" 

"Yes,  my  sister,  he  is  dead,"  answered 
John,  solemnly.  In  the  next  instant  he  held 
Carlen's  unconscious  form  in  his  arms ;  and 
when  Farmer  Weitbreck,  half  dazed,  reached 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  the  first  sight  which 
met  his  eyes  was  his  daughter,  held  in  her 
brother's  arms,  apparently  lifeless,  her  head 
hanging  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Haf  she  seen  him  ? "  he  whispered. 

"No!"  said  John.  "I  only  told  her  he 
was  dead,  to  keep  her  from  going  in,  and  she 
fainted  dead  away." 

"  Ach  ! "  groaned  the  old  man,  "  dis  is  hard 
on  her." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  the  brother  ;  "  it  is  a  cruel 
shame." 


1 62  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

Swiftly  they  carried  her  to  the  house,  and 
laid  her  on  her  mother's  bed,  then  returned 
to  their  dreadful  task  in  Wilhelm's  chamber. 

Hung  by  a  stout  leathern  strap  from  the 
roof-tree  beam,  there  swung  the  dead  body  of 
Wilhelm  Riitter,  cold,  stiff.  He  had  been 
dead  for  hours ;  he  must  have  done  the  deed 
soon  after  bidding  them  good-night. 

"  He  vas  mad,  Johan  ;  it  must  be  he  vas 
mad  ven  he  laugh  like  dat  last  night.  Dat 
vas  de  beginning,  Johan,"  said  the  old  man, 
shaking  from  head  to  foot  with  horror,  as  he 
helped  his  son  lift  down  the  body. 

"  Yes  !  "  answered  John  ;  "  that  must  be 
it.  I  expect  he  has  been  mad  all  along.  I 
do  not  believe  last  night  was  the  beginning. 
It  was  not  like  any  sane  man  to  be  so  gloomy 
as  he  was,  and  never  speak  to  a  living  soul. 
But  I  never  once  thought  of  his  being  crazy. 
Look,  father  !  "  he  continued,  his  voice  break 
ing  into  a  sob,  "  he  has  left  these  flowers 
here  for  Carlen  !  That  does  not  look  as  if  he 
was  crazy  !  What  can  it  all  mean  ?  " 

On  the  top  of  a  small  chest  lay  the  bunch 
of  white  Ladies'-Tress,  with  a  paper  be 
neath  it  on  which  was  written,  "  For  Carlen 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    163 

Weitbreck,  —  these,  and  the  carvings  in  the 
box,  all  in  memory  of  Wilhelm." 

"  He  meant  to  do  it,  den,"  said  the  old 
man. 

"  Yes,"  said  John. 

"Maybe  Carlen  vould  not  haf  him,  you 
tink  ? " 

"No,"  said  John,  hastily;  "that  is  not 
possible." 

"  I  tought  she  luf  him,  an'  he  vould  stay 
an'  be  her  mann,"  sighed  the  disappointed 
father.  "  Now  all  dat  is  no  more." 

"  It  will  kill  her,"  cried  John. 

"  No  !  "  said  the  father.  "  Vimmins  does 
not  die  so  as  dat.  She  feel  pad  maybe  von 
year,  maybe  two.  Dat  is  all.  He  vas  great 
for  vork.  Dat  Alf  vas  not  goot  as  he." 

The  body  was  laid  once  more  on  the  nar 
row  pallet  where  it  had  slept  for  its  last  few 
weeks  on  earth,  and  the  two  men  stood  by 
its  side,  discussing  what  should  next  be  done, 
how  the  necessary  steps  could  be  taken  with 
least  possible  publicity,  when  suddenly  they 
heard  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  and  wheels, 
and  looking  out  they  saw  Hans  Dietman  and 
his  wife  driving  rapidly  into  the  yard. 


1 64  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

"  Mem  Gott !  Vat  bring  dem  here  dis  time 
in  day,"  exclaimed  Farmer  Weitbreck.  "If 
dey  ask  for  Wilhelm  dey  must  all  know  ! " 

"Yes,"  replied  John;  "that  makes  no 
difference.  Everybody  will  have  to  know." 
And  he  ran  swiftly  down  to  meet  the 
strangely  arrived  neighbors. 

His  first  glance  at  their  faces  showed  him 
that  they  had  come  on  no  common  errand. 
They  were  pale  and  full  of  excitement,  and 
Hans's  first  word  was  :  "  Vere  is  dot  man  you 
sent  to  mine  place  yesterday  ? " 

"  Wilhelm  ? "  stammered  Farmer  Weitbreck. 

"  Wilhelm  !  "  repeated  Hans,  scornfully. 
"  His  name  is  not  '  Wilhelm.'  His  name  is 
Carl,  —  Carl  Lepmann  ;  and  he  is  murderer. 
He  killed  von  man  —  shepherd,  in  our  town 
—  last  spring ;  and  dey  never  get  trail  of  him. 
So  soon  he  came  in  our  kitchen  yesterday  my 
vife  she  knew  him  ;  she  wait  till  I  get  home. 
Ve  came  ven  it  vas  yet  dark  to  let  you  know 
vot  man  vas  in  your  house." 

Farmer  Weitbreck  and  his  son  exchanged 
glances ;  each  was  too  shocked  to  speak. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dietman  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  in  bewilderment.  "  Maype  you 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    165 

tink  ve  speak  not  truth,"  Hans  continued. 
"Just  let  him  come  here,  to  our  face,  and 
you  will  see." 

"  No ! "  said  John,  in  a  low,  awe-stricken 
voice,  "we  do  not  think  you  are  not  speak 
ing  truth."  He  paused ;  glanced  again  at 
his  father.  "We'd  better  take  them  up!" 
he  said. 

The  old  man  nodded  silently.  Even  his 
hard  and  phlegmatic  nature  was  shaken  to 
the  depths. 

John  led  the  way  up  the  stairs,  saying 
'briefly,  "Come."  The  Dietmans  followed  in 
bewilderment. 

"There  he  is,"  said  John,  pointing  to  the 
tall  figure,  rigid,  under  the  close-drawn  white 
folds ;  "we  found  him  here  only  an  hour  ago, 
hung  from  the  beam." 

A  horror-stricken  silence  fell  on  the  group. 

Hans  spoke  first.  "He  know  dat  we 
know;  so  he  kill  himself  to  save  dat  de 
hangman  have  trouble." 

John  resented  the  flippant  tone.  He  un 
derstood  now  the  whole  mystery  of  Wilhelm's 
life  in  this  house. 

"  He  has  never  known  a  happy  minute  since 


166  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

he  was  here,"  he  said.  "  He  never  smiled  ; 
nor  spoke,  if  he  could  help  it.  Only  last 
night,  after  he  came  back  from  your  place, 
he  laughed  and  sang,  and  was  merry,  and 
looked  like  another  man  ;  and  he  bade  us  all 
good-night  over  and  over,  and  shook  hands 
with  every  one.  He  had  made  up  his  mind, 
you  see,  that  the  end  had  come,  and  it  was 
nothing  but  a  relief  to  him.  He  was  glad  to 
die.  He  had  not  courage  before.  But  now 
he  knew  he  would  be  arrested  he  had  cour 
age  to  kill  himself.  Poor  fellow,  I  pity  him !  " 
And  John  smoothed  out  the  white  folds  over 
the  clasped  hands  on  the  quiet-stricken  breast, 
resting  at  last.  "  He  has  been  worse  punished 
than  if  he  had  been  hung  in  the  beginning," 
he  said,  and  turned  from  the  bed,  facing  the 
Dietmans  as  if  he  constituted  himself  the 
dead  man's  protector. 

"  I  think  no  one  but  ourselves  need  know," 
he  continued,  thinking  in  his  heart  of  Carlen. 
"  It  is  enough  that  he  is  dead.  There  is  no 
good  to  be  gained  for  any  one,  that  I  see,  by 
telling  what  he  had  done." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Dietman,  tearfully ;  but 
her  husband  exclaimed,  in  a  vindictive  tone : 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    l6? 

"  I  see  not  why  it  is  to  be  covered  in  se 
cret.  He  is  murderer.  It  is  to  be  sent  vord 
to  Mayence  he  vas  found." 

"  Yes,  they  ought  to  know  there,"  said 
John,  slowly  ;  "  but  there  is  no  need  for  it 
to  be  known  here.  He  has  injured  no  one 
here." 

"  No,"  exclaimed  Farmer  Weitbreck.  "  He 
haf  harm  nobody  here ;  he  vas  goot.  I  haf 
ask  him  to  stay  and  haf  home  in  my  house." 

It  was  a  strange  story.  Early  in  the  spring, 
it  seemed,  about  six  weeks  before  Hans  Diet- 
man  and  his  wife  Gretchen  were  married,  a 
shepherd  on  the  farm  adjoining  Gretchen's 
father's  had  been  murdered  by  a  fellow-laborer 
on  the  same  farm.  They  had  had  high  words 
about  a  dog,  and  had  come  to  blows,  but  were 
parted  by  some  of  the  other  hands,  and  had 
separated  and  gone  their  ways  to  their  work 
with  their  respective  flocks. 

This  was  in  the  morning.  At  night  neither 
they  nor  their  flocks  returned ;  and,  search 
being  made,  the  dead  body  of  the  younger 
shepherd  was  found  lying  at  the  foot  of  a 
precipice,  mutilated  and  wounded,  far  more 
than  it  would  have  been  by  any  accidental 


1 68  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

fall.  The  other  shepherd,  Carl  Lepmann, 
had  disappeared,  and  was  never  again  seen 
by  any  one  who  knew  him,  until  this  pre 
vious  day,  when  he  had  entered  the  Diet- 
mans'  door  bearing  his  message  from  the 
Weitbreck  farm.  At  the  first  sight  of  his 
face,  Gretchen  Dietman  had  recognized  him, 
thrown  up  her  arms  involuntarily,  and  cried 
out  in  German:  "My  God!  the  man  that 
killed  the  shepherd!"  Carl  had  halted  on 
the  threshold  at  hearing  these  words,  and 
his  countenance  had  changed ;  but  it  was 
only  for  a  second.  He  regained  his  com 
posure  instantly,  entered  as  if  he  had  heard 
nothing,  delivered  his  message,  and  after 
ward  remained  for  some  time  on  the  farm 
chatting  with  the  laborers,  and  seeming  in 
excellent  spirits. 

"  And  so  vas  he  ven  he  come  home,"  said 
Farmer  Weitbreck;  "he  make  dat  ve  all 
laugh  and  laugh,  like  notings  ever  vas  be 
fore,  never  before  he  open  his  mouth  to 
speak  ;  he  vas  like  at  funeral  all  times,  night 
and  day.  But  now  he  seem  full  of  joy.  It 
is  de  most  strange  ting  as  I  haf  seen  in  my 
life." 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    169 

"  I  do  not  think  so,  father,"  said  John.  "  I 
do  not  wonder  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  his 
burden." 

It  proved  of  no  use  to  try  to  induce  Hans 
Dietman  to  keep  poor  Carl's  secret.  He 
saw  no  reason  why  a  murderer  should  be 
sheltered  from  disgrace.  To  have  his  name 
held  up  for  the  deserved  execration  seemed 
to  Hans  the  only  punishment  left  for  one 
who  had  thus  evaded  the  hangman  ;  and  he 
proceeded  to  inflict  this  punishment  to  the 
extent  of  his  ability. 

Finding  that  the  tale  could  not  be  kept 
secret,  John  nerved  himself  to  tell  it  to  Car- 
len.  She  heard  it  in  silence  from  beginning 
to  end,  asked  a  few  searching  questions,  and 
then  to  John's  unutterable  astonishment  said : 
"  Wilhelm  never  killed  that  man.  You  have 
none  of  you  stopped  to  see  if  there  was 
proof." 

"But  why  did  he  fly,  Liebchen  ? "  asked 
John. 

"  Because  he  knew  he  would  be  accused  of 
the  murder,"  she  replied.  "  They  might  have 
been  fighting  at  the  edge  of  the  precipice 
and  the  shepherd  fell  over,  or  the  shepherd 


1 70  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

might  have  been  killed  by  some  one  else, 
and  Wilhelm  have  found  the  body.  He  never 
killed  him,  John,  never." 

There  was  something  in  Carlen's  confident 
belief  which  communicated  itself  to  John's 
mind,  and,  coupled  with  the  fact  that  there 
was  certainly  only  circumstantial  evidence 
against  Wilhelm,  slowly  brought  him  to 
sharing  her  belief  and  tender  sorrow.  But 
they  were  alone  in  this  belief  and  alone  in 
their  sorrow.  The  verdict  of  the  commun 
ity  was  unhesitatingly,  unqualifiedly,  against 
Wilhelm. 

"Would  a  man  hang  himself  if  he  knew 
he  were  innocent  ? "  said  everybody. 

"All  the  more  if  he  knew  he  could  never 
prove  himself  innocent,"  said  John  and  Car- 
len.  But  no  one  else  thought  so.  And 
how  could  the  truth  ever,  be  known  in  this 
world  ? 

Wilhelm  was  buried  in  a  corner  of  the 
meadow  field  he  had  so  loved.  Before  two 
years  had  passed,  wild  blackberry  vines  had 
covered  the  grave  with  a  thick  mat  of  tan 
gled  leaves,  green  in  summer,  blood-red  in 
the  autumn.  And  before  three  more  had 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    I /I 

passed  there  was  no  one  in  the  place  who 
knew  the  secret  of  the  grave.  Farmer  Weit- 
breck  and  his  wife  were  both  dead,  and  the 
estate  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  strangers 
who  had  heard  the  story  of  Wilhelm,  and 
knew  that  his  body  was  buried  somewhere 
on  the  farm  ;  but  in  which  field  they  neither 
asked  nor  cared,  and  there  was  no  mourner 
to  tell  the  story.  John  Weitbreck  had  real 
ized  his  dream  of  going  West,  a  free  man 
at  last,  and  by  no  means  a  poor  one  ;  he 
looked  out  over  scores  of  broad  fields  of  his 
own,  one  of  the  most  fertile  of  the  Oregon 
valleys. 

Alf  was  with  him,  and  Carlen  ;  and  Carlen 
was  Alf's  wife,  —  placid,  contented  wife,  and 
fond  and  happy  mother,  —  so  small  ripples 
did  there  remain  from  the  tempestuous  waves 
beneath  which  Carl  Lepmann's  life  had  gone 
down.  Some  deftly  carved  boxes  and  figures 
of  chamois  and  their  hunters  stood  on  Car- 
len's  best-room  mantel,  much  admired  by  her 
neighbors,  and  longed  for  by  her  toddling  girl, 
—  these,  and  a  bunch  of  dried  and  crumbling 
blossoms  of  the  Ladies'  Tress,  were  all  that  had 
survived  the  storm.  The  dried  flowers  were  in 


1 72  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

the  largest  of  the  boxes.  They  lay  there  side 
by  side  with  a  bit  of  carved  abalone  shell  Alf 
had  got  from  a  Nez  Perce  Indian,  and  some 
curious  seaweeds  he  had  picked  up  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Columbia  River.  Carlen's  one 
gilt  brooch  was  kept  in  the  same  box,  and 
when  she  took  it  out  of  a  Sunday,  the  sight 
of  the  withered  flowers  always  reminded  her 
of  Wilhelm.  She  could  not  have  told  why 
she  kept  them ;  it  certainly  was  not  because 
they  woke  in  her  breast  any  thoughts  which 
Alf  might  not  have  read  without  being  dis 
quieted.  She  sometimes  sighed,  as  she  saw 
them,  "  Poor  Wilhelm  !  "  That  was  all. 

But  there  came  one  day  a  letter  to  John 
that  awoke  even  in  Carlen's  motherly  and  con 
tented  heart  strange  echoes  from  that  past 
which  she  had  thought  forever  left  behind. 
It  was  a  letter  from  Hans  Dietman,  who  still 
lived  on  the  Pennsylvania  farm,  and  who  had 
been  recently  joined  there  by  a  younger 
brother  from  Germany. 

This  brother  had  brought  news  which,  too 
late,  vindicated  the  memory  of  Wilhelm.  Car- 
len  had  been  right.  He  was  no  murderer. 

It  was  with  struggling  emotions  that  Carlen 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    173 

heard  the  tale ;  pride,  joy,  passionate  regret, 
old  affection,  revived.  John  was  half  afraid  to 
go  on,  as  he  saw  her  face  flushing,  her  eyes 
filling  with  tears,  kindling  and  shining  with 
a  light  he  had  not  seen  in  them  since  her 
youth. 

"  Go  on  !  go  on  !  "  she  cried.  "  Why  do 
you  stop  ?  Did  I  not  tell  you  so  ?  And  you 
never  half  believed  me  !  Now  you  see  I  was 
right !  I  told  you  Wilhelm  never  harmed  a 
human  being!" 

It  was  indeed  a  heartrending  story,  to 
come  so  late,  so  bootless  now,  to  the  poor  boy 
who  had  slept  all  these  years  in  the  nameless 
grave,  even  its  place  forgotten. 

It  seemed  that  a  man  sentenced  in  May- 
ence  to  be  executed  for  murder  had  confessed, 
the  day  before  his  execution,  that  it  was  he 
who  had  killed  the  shepherd  of  whose  death 
Carl  Lepmann  had  so  long  been  held  guilty. 
They  had  quarrelled  about  a  girl,  a  faithless 
creature,  forsworn  to  both  of  them,  and  worth 
no  man's  love  or  desire  ;  but  jealous  anger  got 
the  better  of  their  sense,  and  they  grappled  in 
fight,  each  determined  to  kill  the  other. 

The  shepherd  had  the  worst  of  it;  and  just 


174  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

as  he  fell,  mortally  hurt,  Carl  Lepmann  had 
come  up,  —  had  come  up  in  time  to  see  the 
murderer  leap  on  his  horse  to  ride  away. 

In  a  voice,  which  the  man  said  had  haunted 
him  ever  since,  Carl  had  cried  out :  "  My  God  ! 
You  ride  away  and  leave  him  dead!  and  it 
will  be  I  who  have  killed  him,  for  this  morning 
we  fought  so  they  had  to  tear  us  apart ! " 

Smitten  with  remorse,  the  man  had  with 
Carl's  help  lifted  the  body  and  thrown  it  over 
the  precipice,  at  the  foot  of  which  it  was  after 
ward  found.  He  then  endeavored  to  persuade 
the  lad  that  it  would  never  be  discovered,  and 
he  might  safely  return  to  his  employer's  farm. 
But  Carl's  terror  was  too  great,  and  he  had 
finally  been  so  wrought  upon  by  his  entreaties 
that  he  had  taken  him  two  days'  journey,  by 
lonely  ways,  the  two  riding  sometimes  in  turn, 
sometimes  together,  —  two  days'  and  two 
nights'  journey, —  till  they  reached  the  sea, 
where  Carl  had  taken  ship  for  America. 

"He  was  a  good  lad,  a  tender-hearted  lad," 
said  the  murderer.  "  He  might  have  accused 
me  in  many  a  village,  and  stood  as  good  chance 
to  be  believed  as  I,  if  he  had  told  where  the 
shepherd's  body  was  thrown  ;  but  he  could  be 


MYSTERY  OF  WILHELM  RUTTER.    175 

frightened  as  easily  as  a  woman,  and  all  he 
thought  of  was  to  fly  where  he  would  never 
be  heard  of  more.  And  it  was  the  thought 
of  him,  from  that  day  till  now,  has  given  me 
more  misery  than  the  thought  of  the  dead 
man  ! " 

Carlen  was  crying  bitterly ;  the  letter  was 
just  ended,  when  Alf  came  into  the  room  ask 
ing  bewilderedly  what  it  was  all  about. 

The  name  Wilhelm  meant  nothing  to  him. 
It  was  the  summer  before  Wilhelm  came  that 
he  had  begun  this  Oregon  farm,  which  he, 
from  the  first,  had  fondly  dedicated  to  Carlen 
in  his  thoughts  ;  and  when  he  went  back  to 
Pennsylvania  after  her,  he  found  her  the  same 
as  when  he  went  away,  only  comelier  and 
sweeter.  It  would  not  be  easy  to  give  Alf  an 
uncomfortable  thought  about  his  Carlen.  But 
he  did  not  like  to  see  her  cry. 

Neither,  when  he  had  heard  the  whole  story, 
did  he  see  why  her  tears  need  have  flowed  so 
freely.  It  was  sad,  no  doubt,  and  a  bitter 
shame  too,  for  one  man  to  suffer  and  go  to 
his  grave  that  way  for  the  sin  of  another. 
But  it  was  long  past  and  gone ;  no  use  in 
crying  over  it  now. 


176  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

"What  a  tender-hearted,  foolish  wife  it 
is ! "  he  said  in  gruff  fondness,  laying  his 
hand  on  Carlen's  shoulder,  "crying  over  a 
man  dead  and  buried  these  seven  years,  and 
none  of  our  kith  or  kin,  either.  Poor  fellow ! 
It  was  a  shame !" 

But  Carlen  said  nothing. 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT. 


LITTLE   BEL'S   SUPPLEMENT. 

"  TNDEED,  then,  my  mother,  I  '11  not  take 
JL     the  school  at  Wissan  Bridge  without 
they   promise    me   a   supplement.     It's   the 
worst  school  i'  a*  Prince  Edward  Island." 

"I  doubt  but  ye 're  young  to  tackle  wi' 
them  boys,  Bel,"  replied  the  mother,  gazing 
into  her  daughter's  face  with  an  intent  ex 
pression  in  which  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
say  which  predominated,  —  anxiety  or  fond 
pride.  "I'd  sooner  see  ye  take  any  other 
school  between  this  an'  Charlottetown,  an'  no 
supplement." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid,  my  mother,  but  I  '11  man 
age  'em  well  enough  ;  but  I  '11  not  undertake 
it  for  the  same  money  as  a  decent  school  is 
taught.  They  '11  promise  me  five  pounds'  sup 
plement  at  the  end  o'  the  year,  or  I  '11  not  set 
foot  i'  the  place." 


178  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

"  Maybe  they  '11  not  be  for  givin'  ye  the 
school  at  all  when  they  see  what 's  yer  youth," 
replied  the  mother,  in  a  half-antagonistic 
tone.  There  was  between  this  mother  and 
daughter  a  continual  undercurrent  of  possible 
antagonism,  overlain  and  usually  smothered 
out  of  sight  by  passionate  attachment  on 
both  sides. 

Little  Bel  tossed  her  head.  "Age  is  not 
everything  that  goes  to  the  makkin  o'  a 
teacher,"  she  retorted.  "There's  Grizzy 
McLeod  ;  she 's  teachin'  at  the  Cove  these 
eight  years,  an'  I'd  shame  her  myself  any 
day  she  likes  wi'  spellin'  an'  the  lines  ;  an'  if 
there's  ever  a  boy  in  a  school  o'  mine  that'll 
gie  me  a  floutin'  answer  such  's  I  've  heard 
her  take  by  the  dozen,  I'll  warrant  ye  he'll 
get  a  birchin'  ;  an'  the  trustees  think  there's 
no  teacher  like  Grizzy.  I  'm  not  afraid." 

"  Grizzy  never  had  any  great  schoolin'  her 
self,"  replied  her  mother,  piously.  "There's 
no  girl  in  all  the  farms  that's  had  what  ye've 
had,  Bel." 

"It  isn't  the  schoolin',  mother,"  retorted 
little  Bel.  "The  schoolin"s  got  nothin'  to 
do  with  it.  I'd  teach  a  school  better  than 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       179 

Grizzy    McLeod    if    I  'd    never   had    a   day's 
schoolin'." 

"  An'  now  if  that's  not  the  talk  of  a  silly," 
retorted  the  quickly  angered  parent.  "  Will 
ye  be  tellin'  me  perhaps,  then,  that  them  that 
can't  read  theirselves  is  to  be  set  to  teach 
letters  ?  " 

Little  Bel  was  too  loyal  at  heart  to  her  il 
literate  mother  to  wound  her  further  by  reit 
erating  her  point.  Throwing  her  arms  around 
her  neck,  and  kissing  her  warmly,  she  ex 
claimed  :  "  Eh,  my  mother,  it 's  not  a  silly 
that  ye  could  ever  have  for  a  child,  wi'  that 
clear  head,  and  the  wise  things  always  said  to 
us  from  the  time  we  're  in  our  cradles.  Ye  Ve 
never  a  child  that 's  so  clever  as  ye  are  yer- 
self.  I  did  n't  mean  just  what  I  said,  ye  must 
know,  surely  ;  only  that  the  schoolin'  part  is 
the  smallest  part  o'  the  keepin'  a  school." 

"  An'  I  '11  never  give  in  to  such  nonsense 
as  that,  either,"  said  the  mother,  only  half 
mollified.  "  Ye  can  ask  yer  father,  if  ye  like, 
if  it  stands  not  to  reason  that  the  more  a 
teacher  knows,  the  more  he  can  teach.  He  '11 
take  the  conceit  out  o'  ye  better  than  I  can." 
And  good  Isabella  McDonald  turned  angrily 


180  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

away,  and  drummed  on  the  window-pane  with 
her  knitting-needles  to  relieve  her  nervous 
discomfort  at  this  slight  passage  at  arms  with 
her  best-beloved  daughter. 

Little  Bel's  face  flushed,  and  with  com 
pressed  lips  she  turned  silently  to  the  little 
oaken-framed  looking-glass  that  hung  so  high 
on  the  wall  she  could  but  just  see  her  chin  in 
it.  As  she  slowly  tied  her  pink  bonnet 
strings  she  grew  happier.  In  truth,  she 
would  have  been  a  maiden  hard  to  console  if 
the  face  that  looked  back  at  her  from  the 
quaint  oak  leaf  and  acorn  wreath  had  not 
comforted  her  inmost  soul,  and  made  her 
again  at  peace  with  herself.  And  as  the 
mother  looked  on  she  too  was  comforted  ;  and 
in  five  minutes  more,  when  Little  Bel  was 
ready  to  say  good-by,  they  flung  their  arms 
around  each  other,  and  embraced  and  kissed, 
and  the  daughter  said,  "  Good-by  t'  ye  now, 
mother.  Wish  me  well,  an'  ye  '11  see  that  I 
get  it,  —  supplement  an'  all,"  she  added  slyly. 
And  the  mother  said,  "  Good  luck  t'  ye,  child  ; 
an'  it's  luck  to  them  that  gets  ye."  That 
was  the  way  quarrels  always  ended  between 
Isabella  McDonald  and  her  oldest  daughter. 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.      l8l 

The  oldest  daughter,  and  yet  only  just 
turned  of  twenty ;  and  there  were  eight  chil 
dren  younger  than  she,  and  one  older.  This 
is  the  way  among  the  Scotch  farming-folk  in 
Prince  Edward  Island.  Children  come  tum 
bling  into  the  world  like  rabbits  in  a  pen,  and 
have  to  scramble  for  a  living  almost  as  soon 
and  as  hard  as  the  rabbits.  It  is  a  narrow 
life  they  lead,  and  full  of  hardships  and  depri 
vations,  but  it  has  its  compensations.  Sturdy 
virtues  in  sturdy  bodies  come  of  it,  —  the  sort 
of  virtue  made  by  the  straitest  Calvinism, 
and  the  sort  of  body  made  out  of  oatmeal  and 
milk.  One  might  do  much  worse  than  in 
herit  both. 

It  seemed  but  a  few  years  ago  that  John 
McDonald  had  wooed  and  won  Isabella 
Mclntosh,  —  wooed  her  with  difficulty  in 
the  bosom  of  her  family  of  six  brothers  and 
five  sisters,  and  won  her  triumphantly  in 
spite  of  the  open  and  contemptuous  oppo 
sition  of  one  of  the  five  sisters.  For  John 
himself  was  one  of  seven  in  his  father's  home, 
and  whoever  married  John  must  go  there  to 
live,  to  be  only  a  daughter  in  a  mother-in- 
law's  house,  and  take  a  daughter's  share  of 


1 82  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

the  brunt  of  everything.  "And  nothing  to 
be  got  except  a  living,  and  it  was  a  poor 
living  the  McDonald  farm  gave  beside  the 
Mclntosh,"  the  Mclntosh  sisters  said.  And, 
moreover  :  "  The  saint  did  not  live  that  could 
get  on  with  John  McDonald's  mother.  That 
was  what  had  made  him  the  silent  fellow  he 
was,  always  being  told  by  his  mother  to  hold 
his  tongue  and  have  done  speaking  ;  and  a 
fine  pepper-pot  there  'd  be  when  Isabella's 
hasty  tongue  and  temper  were  flung  into 
that  batch!" 

There  was  no  gainsaying  all  this.  Nev 
ertheless,  Isabella  married  John,  went  home 
with  him  into  his  father's  house,  put  her 
shoulder  against  her  spoke  in  the  family 
wheel,  and  did  her  best.  And  when,  ten 
years  later,  as  reward  of  her  affectionate 
trust  and  patience,  she  found  herself  sole 
mistress  of  the  McDonald  farm,  she  did  not 
feel  herself  ill  paid.  The  old  father  and 
mother  were  dead,  two  sisters  had  died  and 
two  had  married,  and  the  two  sons  had  gone 
to  the  States  to  seek  better  fortunes  than 
were  to  be  made  on  Prince  Edward  Island. 
John,  as  eldest  son,  had,  according  to  the 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       183 

custom  of  the  island,  inherited  the  farm; 
and  Mrs.  Isabella,  confronting  her  three 
still  unmarried  sisters,  was  able  at  last  tri 
umphantly  to  refute  their  still  resentfully 
remembered  objections  to  her  choice  of  a 
husband. 

"An'  did  ye  suppose  I  did  not  all  the 
time  know  that  it  was  to  this  it  was  sure 
to  come,  soon  or  late?"  she  said,  with  jus 
tifiable  complacency.  "  It 's  a  good  thing  to 
have  a  house  o'  one's  own  an'  an  estate. 
An'  the  linen  that's  in  the  house!  I  've  no 
need  to  turn  a  hand  to  the  flax-wheel  for 
ten  years  if  I  've  no  mind.  An'  ye  can  all 
bide  your  times,  an'  see  what  John  '11  make 
o'  the  farm,  now  he's  got  where  he  can 
have  things  his  own  way.  His  father  was 
always  set  against  anything  that  was  new, 
an'  the  place  is  run  down  shameful ;  but 
John  '11  bring  it  up,  an  I  'm  not  an  old 
woman  yet." 

This  last  was  the  unkindest  phrase  Mrs. 
John  McDonald  permitted  herself  to  use. 
There  was  a  rebound  in  it  which  told  on 
the  Mclntosh  sisters  ;  for  they,  many  years 
older  than  she,  were  already  living  on  tol- 


1 84  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

erance  in  their,  father's  house,  where  their 
oldest  brother  and  his  wife  ruled  things  with 
an  iron  hand.  All  hopes  of  a  husband  and 
a  home  of  their  own  had  quite  died  out  of 
their  spinster  bosoms,  and  they  would  not 
have  been  human  had  they  not  secretly 
and  grievously  envied  the  comely,  blooming 
Isabella  her  husband,  children,  and  home. 

But,  with  all  this,  it  was  no  play-day  life 
that  Mrs.  Isabella  had  led.  At  the  very  best, 
and  with  the  best  of  farms,  Prince  Edward 
Island  farming  is  no  high-road  to  fortune; 
only  a  living,  and  that  of  the  plainest,  is  to 
be  made ;  and  when  children  come  at  the 
rate  of  ten  in  twenty-two  years,  it  is  but  a 
small  showing  that  the  farmer's  bank  ac 
count  makes  at  the  end  of  that  time.  There 
is  no  margin  for  fineries,  luxuries,  small  am 
bitions  of  any  kind.  Isabella  had  her  temp 
tations  in  these  directions,  but  John  was  firm 
as  a  rock  in  withstanding  them.  If  he  had 
not  been,  there  would  never  have  been  this 
story  to  tell  of  his  Little  Bel's  school-teach 
ing,  for  there  would  never  have  been  money 
enough  in  the  bank  to  have  given  her  two 
years'  schooling  in  Charlottetown,  the  best 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       185 

the  little  city  afforded,  —  "and  she  boardin' 
all  the  time  like  a  lady,"  said  the  severe 
Mclntosh  aunts,  who  disapproved  of  all 
such  wide-flying  ambitions,  which  made 
women  discontented  with  and  unfitted  for 
farming  life. 

"And  why  should  Isabella  be  setting  her 
daughters  up  for  teachers?"  they  said.  "It 's 
no  great  schoolin'  she  had  herself,  and  if  her 
girls  do  as  well  as  she 's  done,  they  '11  be 
lucky,"  —  a  speech  which  made  John  McDon 
ald  laugh  out  when  it  was  reported  to  him. 
He  could  afford  to  laugh  now. 

"  I  mind  there  was  a  day  when  they  thought 
different  o'  me  from  that,"  he  said.  "  I  'm 
obliged  to  them  for  nothin' ;  but  I  'd  like  the 
little  one  to  have  a  better  chance  than  the 
marryin'  o'  a  man  like  me,  an'  if  anything  '11 
get  it  for  her,  it  '11  be  schoolin'." 

The  "boardin'  like  a  lady,"  which  had  so 
offended  the  Misses  Mclntosh's  sense  of 
propriety,  was  not,  after  all,  so  great  an  ex 
travagance  as  they  had  supposed ;  for  it  was 
in  his  own  brother's  house  her  thrifty  father 
had  put  her,  and  had  stipulated  that  part 
of  the  price  of  her  board  was  to  be  paid  in 


1 86  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

produce  of  one  sort  and  another  from  the 
farm,  at  market  rates  ;  "  an'  so,  ye  see,  the 
lass '11  be  eatin'  it  there  'stead  of  here,"  he 
said  to  his  wife  when  he  told  her  of  the 
arrangement,  "an'  it's  a  sma'  difference  it'll 
make  to  us  i'  the  end  o'  the  two  years." 

"An'  a  big  difference  to  her  a'  her  life," 
replied  Isabella,  warmly. 

"  Ay,  wife,"  said  John,  "  if  it  fa's  out  as  ye 
hope;  but  it's  main  uncertain  countin'  on 
the  book-knowledge.  There 's  some  it  draws 
up  an'  some  it  draws  down  ;  it's  a  millstone. 
But  the  lass  is  bright;  she's  as  like  you  as 
two  peas  in  a  pod.  If  ye  'd  had  the  chance 
she 'shad  —  " 

Rising  color  in  Isabella's  face  warned  John 
to  stop.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  see  how 
often  there  hovers  a  flitting  shadow  of  jeal 
ousy  between  a  mother  and  the  daughter  to 
whom  the  father  unconsciously  manifests  a 
chivalrous  tenderness  akin  to  that  which  in 
his  youth  he  had  given  only  to  the  sweetheart 
he  sought  for  wife.  Unacknowledged,  per 
haps,  even  unmanifested  save  in  occasional 
swift  and  unreasonable  petulances,  it  is  still 
there,  making  many  a  heartache,  which  is 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       l8/ 

none  the  less  bitter  that  it  is  inexplicable  to 
itself,  and  dares  not  so  much  as  confess  its 
own  existence. 

"  It's  a  better  thing  for  a  woman  to  make 
her  way  i'  the  world  on  the  book-learnin' 
than  to  be  always  at  the  wheel  an'  the  churn 
an'  the  floors  to  be  whitened,"  replied  Isabella, 
sharply.  "An'  one  year  like  another,  till  the 
year  comes  ye 're  buried.  I  look  for  Bel  to 
marry  a  minister,  or  maybe  even  better." 

"  Ye'd  a  chance  at  a  minister  yersel',  then, 
my  girl,"  replied  the  wise  John,  "  an'  ye  did 
not  take  it."  At  which  memory  the  wife 
laughed,  and  the  two  loyal  hearts  were  merry 
together  for  a  moment,  and  young  again. 

Little  Bel  had,  indeed,  even  before  the 
Charlottetown  schooling,  had  a  far  better 
chance  than  her  mother ;  for  in  her  mother's 
day  there  was  no  free  school  in  the  island, 
and  in  families  of  ten  and  twelve  it  was  only 
a  turn  and  turn  about  that  the  children  had 
at  school.  Since  the  free  schools  had  been 
established  many  a  grown  man  and  woman 
had  sighed  curiously  at  the  better  luck  of  the 
youngsters  under  the  new  regime.  No  ex 
cuse  now  for  the  poorest  man's  children  not 


1 88  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

knowing  how  to  read  and  write  and  more; 
and  if  they  chose  to  keep  on,  nothing  to  hin 
der  their  dipping  into  studies  of  which  their 
parents  never  heard  so  much  as  the  names. 

And  this  was  not  the  only  better  chance 
which  Little  Bel  had  had.  John  McDonald's 
farm  joined  the  lands  of  the  manse ;  his 
house  was  a  short  mile  from  the  manse  itself  ; 
and  by  a  bit  of  good  fortune  for  Little  Bel  it 
happened  that  just  as  she  was  growing  into 
girlhood  there  came  a  new  minister  to  the 
manse,  —  a  young  man  from  Halifax,  with  a 
young  bride,  the  daughter  of  an  officer  in  the 
Halifax  garrison,  —  gentlefolks,  both  of  them, 
but  single-hearted  and  full  of  fervor  in  their 
work  for  the  souls  of  the  plain  farming-peo 
ple  given  into  their  charge.  And  both  Mr. 
Allan  and  Mrs.  Allan  had  caught  sight  of  Little 
Bel's  face  on  their  first  Sunday  in  church,  and 
Mrs.  Allan  had  traced  to  her  a  flute-like  voice 
she  had  detected  in  the  Sunday-school  sing 
ing  ;  and  before  long,  to  Isabella's  great  but 
unspoken  pride,  the  child  had  been  "bidden 
to  the  manse  for  the  minister's  wife  to  hear 
her  sing;"  and  from  that  day  there  was  a 
new  vista  in  Little  Bel's  life. 


LITTLE  BEVS  SUPPLEMENT,      189 

Her  voice  was  sweet  as  a  lark's  and  as 
pure,  and  her  passionate  love  for  music  a  gift 
in  itself.  "  It  would  be  a  sin  not  to  cultivate 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Allan  to  her  husband,  "  even  if 
she  never  sees  another  piano  than  mine,  nor 
has  any  other  time  in  her  life  except  these 
few  years  to  enjoy  it ;  she  will  always  have 
had  these,  and  nothing  can  separate  her  from 
her  voice." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  when,  at  six 
teen,  Little  Bel  went  to  Charlottetown  for  her 
final  two  years  of  study  at  the  High  School, 
she  played  almost  as  well  as  Mrs.  Allan  her 
self,  and  sang  far  better.  And  in  all  Isabella 
McDonald's  day-dreams  of  the  child's  future, 
vague  or  minute,  there  was  one  feature  never 
left  out.  The  "good  husband"  coming  al 
ways  was  to  be  a  man  who  could  "  give  her  a 
piano." 

In  Charlottetown  Bel  found  no  such  friend 
as  Mrs.  Allan  ;  but  she  had  a  young  school 
mate  who  had  a  piano,  and  —  poor  short 
sighted  creature  that  she  was,  Bel  thought  — 
hated  the  sight  of  it,  detested  to  practise,  and 
shed  many  a  tear  over  her  lessons.  This 
girl's  parents  were  thankful  to  see  their 


BETWEEN  WHILES. 


daughter  impressed  by  Bel's  enthusiasm  for 
music  ;  and  so  well  did  the  clever  girl  play 
her  cards  that  before  she  had  been  six  months 
in  the  place,  she  was  installed  as  music-teacher 
to  her  own  schoolfellow,  earning  thereby  not 
only  money  enough  to  buy  the  few  clothes 
she  needed,  but,  what  to  her  was  better  than 
money,  the  privilege  of  the  use  of  the  piano 
an  hour  a  day. 

So  when  she  went  home,  at  the  end  of  the 
two  years,  she  had  lost  nothing, — in  fact, 
had  made  substantial  progress ;  and  her  old 
friend  and  teacher,  Mrs.  Allan,  was  as  proud 
as  she  was  astonished  when  she  first  heard 
her  play  and  sing.  Still  more  astonished  was 
she  at  the  forceful  character  the  girl  had  de 
veloped.  She  went  away  a  gentle,  loving, 
clinging  child  ;  her  nature,  like  her  voice,  be 
longing  to  the  order  of  birds,  —  bright,  flitting, 
merry,  confiding.  She  returned  a  woman, 
still  loving,  still  gentle  in  her  manner,  but 
with  a  new  poise  in  her  bearing,  a  resolute 
ness,  a  fire,  of  which  her  first  girlhood  had 
given  no  suggestion.  It  was  strange  to  see 
how  similar  yet  unlike  were  the  comments 
made  on  her  in  the  manse  and  in  the  farm- 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       IQI 

house  by  the  two  couples  most  interested  in 
her  welfare. 

"  It  is  wonderful,  Robert,"  said  Mrs.  Allan 
to  her  husband,  "  how  that  girl  has  changed, 
and  yet  not  changed.  It  is  the  music  that 
has  lifted  her  up  so.  What  a  glorious  thing 
is  a  real  passion  for  any  art  in  a  human  soul ! 
But  she  can  never  live  here  among  these  peo 
ple.  I  must  take  her  to  Halifax." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Allan  ;  "  her  work  will  be 
here.  She  belongs  to  her  people  in  heart,  all 
the  same.  She  will  not  be  discontented." 

"  Husband,  I'm  doubtin'  if  we've  done  the 
right  thing  by  the  child,  after  a',"  said  the 
mother,  tearfully,  to  the  father,  at  the  end  of 
the  first  evening  after  Bel's  return.  "She's 
got  the  ways  o'  the  city  on  her,  an'  she  car 
ries  herself  as  if  she  'd  be  teachin'  the  min 
ister  his  own  self.  I  doubt  but  she  '11  feel 
herself  strange  i'  the  house." 

"Never  you  fash  yourself,"  replied  John. 
"  The  girl 's  got  her  head,  that 's  a'  ;  but  her 
heart's  i'  the  right  place.  Ye '11  see  she'll 
put  her  strength  to  whatever  there's  to  be 
done.  She'll  be  a  master  hand  at  teachin', 
I  '11  wager  !  " 


1 92  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

"  You  always  did  think  she  was  perfection," 
replied  the  mother,  in  a  crisp  but  not  ill-na 
tured  tone,  "  an'  I  'm  not  gainsayin'  that  she  's 
not  as  near  it  as  is  often  seen  ;  but  I  'm  main 
uneasy  to  see  her  carryin'  herself  so  positive." 

If  John  thought  in  his  heart  that  Bel  had 
come  through  direct  heredity  on  the  maternal 
side  by  this  "carryin'  herself  positive,"  he 
knew  better  than  to  say  so,  and  his  only  re 
ply  was  a  good-natured  laugh,  with  :  "  You  '11 
see!  I'm  not  afraid.  She's  a  good  child, 
an'  always  was." 

Bel  passed  her  examination  triumphantly, 
and  got  the  Wissan  Bridge  school ;  but  she 
got  only  a  contingent  promise  of  the  five- 
pound  supplement.  It  went  sorely  against 
her  will  to  waive  this  point.  Very  keenly  Mr. 
Allan,  who  was  on  the  Examining  Board, 
watched  her  face  as  she  modestly  yet  firmly 
pressed  it. 

The  trustees  did  not  deny  that  the  Wissan 
Bridge  school  was  a  difficult  and  unruly  one  ; 
that  to  manage  it  well  was  worth  more  money 
than  the  ordinary  school  salaries.  The  ques 
tion  was  whether  this  very  young  lady  could 
manage  it  at  all;  and  if  she  failed,  as  the 


LITTLE  BEVS  SUPPLEMENT.       193 

last  incumbent  had,  —  failed  egregiously,  too  ; 
the  school  had  broken  up  in  riotous  confusion 
before  the  end  of  the  year,  —  the  canny 
Scotchmen  of  the  School  Board  did  not  wish 
to  be  pledged  to  pay  that  extra  five  pounds. 
The  utmost  Bel  could  extract  from  them  was 
a  promise  that  if  at  the  end  of  the  year  her 
teaching  had  proved  satisfactory,  the  five 
pounds  should  be  paid.  More  they  would 
not  say ;  and  after  a  short,  sharp  struggle 
with  herself  Bel  accepted  the  terms  ;  but  she 
could  not  restrain  a  farewell  shot  at  the  trus 
tees  as  she  turned  to  go.  "  I  'm  as  sure  o'  my 
five  pounds  as  if  ye  'd  promised  it  downright, 
sirs.  I  shall  keep  ye  a  good  school  at  Wissan 
Bridge." 

"  We  '11  make  it  guineas,  then,  Miss  Bel," 
cried  Mr.  Allan,  enthusiastically,  looking  at 
his  colleagues,  who  nodded  their  heads,  and 
said,  laughing,  "  Yes,  guineas  it  is." 

"And  guineas  it  will  be,"  retorted  Little 
Bel,  as  with  cheeks  like  peonies  she  left  the 
room. 

"  Egad,  but  she 's  a  fine  spirit  o'  her  ain, 
an'  as  bonnie  a  face  as  I  've  seen  since  I  re 
member,"  cried  old  Mr.  Dalgetty,  the  senior 
13 


194  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

member  of  the  Board,  and  the  one  hardest  to 
please.  "  I  'd  not  mind  bein'  a  pupil  at  Wis- 
san  Bridge  school  the  comin'  term  myself." 
And  he  gave  an  old  man's  privileged  chuckle 
as  he  looked  at  his  colleagues.  "  But  she  's 
over-young  for  the  work, —  over-young." 

"  She  '11  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Allan,  confidently. 
"Ye  need  have  no  fear.  My  wife's  had  the 
training  of  the  girl  since  she  was  little.  She 's 
got  the  best  o'  stuff  in  her.  She  '11  do  it." 

Mr.  Allan's  prediction  was  fulfilled.  Bel 
did  it.  But  she  did  it  at  the  cost  of  harder 
work  than  even  she  had  anticipated.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  her  music  she  would  never 
have  pulled  through  with  the  boys  of  Wissan 
Bridge.  By  her  music  she  tamed  them.  The 
young  Marsyas  himself  never  piped  to  a 
wilder  set  of  creatures  than  the  uncouth  lads 
and  young  men  that  sat  in  wide-eyed,  wide- 
mouthed  astonishment  listening  to  the  first 
song  their  pretty  young  schoolmistress  sang 
for  them.  To  have  singing  exercises  part  of 
the  regular  school  routine  was  a  new  thing 
at  Wissan  Bridge.  It  took  like  wild-fire  ;  and 
when  Little  Bel,  shrewd  and  diplomatic  as  a 
statesman,  invited  the  two  oldest  and  worst 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       195 

boys  in  the  school  to  come  Wednesday  and 
Saturday  afternoons  to  her  boarding-place  to 
practise  singing  with  her  to  the  accompani 
ment  of  the  piano,  so  as  to  be  able  to  help 
her  lead  the  rest,  her  sovereignty  was  estab 
lished.  They  were  not  conquered  ;  they  were 
converted,  —  a  far  surer  and  more  lasting 
process.  Neither  of  them  would,  from  that 
day  out,  have  been  guilty  of  an  act,  word,  or 
look  to  annoy  her,  any  more  than  if  they 
had  been  rival  lovers  suing  for  her  hand.  As 
Bel's  good  luck  would  have  it,  —  and  Bel  was 
born  to  good  luck,  there  is  no  denying  it,  — 
one  of  these  boys  had  a  good  tenor  voice,  the 
other  a  fine  barytone  ;  they  had  both  in  their 
rough  way  been  singers  all  their  lives,  and 
were  lovers  of  music. 

"  That  was  more  than  half  the  battle,  my 
mother,"  confessed  Bel,  when,  at  the  end  of 
the  first  term  she  was  at  home  for  a  few  days, 
and  was  recounting  her  experiences.  "  Ex 
cept  for  the  singin'  I  'd  never  have  got  Archie 
McLeod  under,  nor  Sandy  Stairs  either.  I 
doubt  they  'd  have  been  too  many  for  me, 
but  now  they  're  like  two  more  teachers  to 
the  fore.  I  'd  leave  the  school-room  to  them 


196,  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

for  a  day,  an'  not  a  lad  'd  dare  stir  in  his  seat 
without  their  leave.  I  call  them  my  consta 
bles  ;  an'  I  'm  teaching  them  a  small  bit  of 
chemistry  out  o'  school  hours,  too,  an'  that 's 
a  hold  on  them.  They  '11  see  me  out  safe  ; 
an'  I  'm  thinkin'  I  '11  owe  them  a  bit  part  o' 
the  five  guineas  when  I  get  it,"  she  added 
reflectively. 

"  The  minister  says  ye  're  sure  of  it,"  re 
plied  her  mother.  "  He  says  ye  've  the  best 
school  a'ready  in  all  his  circuit.  I  don't  know 
how  ever  ye  come  to't  so  quick,  child."  And 
Isabella  McDonald  smiled  wistfully,  spite  of 
all  her  pride  in  her  clever  bairn. 

"Ye  see,  then,  what  he'll  say  after  the  ex 
amination  at  New  Year's,"  gleefully  replied 
Bel,  "  if  he  thinks  the  school  is  so  good  now. 
It'll  be  twice  as  good  then  ;  an'  such  singin' 
as  was  never  heard  before  in  any  school- 
house  on  the  island,  I  '11  warrant  me.  I  'm 
to  have  the  piano  over  for  the  day  to  the 
school-house.  Archie  and  Sandy '11  move  it 
in  a  big  wagon,  to  save  me  payin'  for  the 
cartin'  ;  an'  I  'm  to  pay  a  half-pound  for  the 
use  of  it  if  it 's  not  hurt,  —  a  dear  bargain, 
but  she  'd  not  let  it  go  a  shilling  less.  And, 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       197 

to  be  sure,  there  is  the  risk  to  be  counted. 
An'  she  knew  I  'd  have  it  if  it  had  been  twice 
that.  But  I  got  it  out  of  her  that  for  that  price 
she  was  to  let  me  have  all  the  school  over 
twice  a  week,  for  two  months  before,  to  prac 
tise.  So  it's  not  too  dear.  Ye '11  see  what 
ye '11  hear  then." 

It  had  been  part  of  Little  Bel's  good  luck 
that  she  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  board  in 
the  only  family  in  the  village  which  had  the 
distinction  of  owning  a  piano  ;  and  by  paying 
a  small  sum  extra,  she  had  obtained  the  use 
of  this  piano  for  an  hour  each  day,  —  the  best 
investment  of  Little  Bel's  life,  as  the  sequel 
showed. 

It  was  a  bitter  winter  on  Prince  Edward 
Island.  By  New  Year's  time  the  roads  were 
many  of  them  wellnigh  impassable  with 
snow.  Fierce  winds  swept  to  and  fro,  oblit 
erating  tracks  by  noon  which  had  been  clear 
in  the  morning  ;  and  nobody  went  abroad  if 
he  could  help  it.  New  Year's  Day  opened 
fiercest  of  all,  with  scurries  of  snow,  lowering 
sky,  and  a  wind  that  threatened  to  be  a  gale 
before  night.  But,  for  all  that,  the  tying- 
posts  behind  the  Wissan  Bridge  school-house 


1 98  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

were  crowded  full  of  steaming  horses  under 
buffalo-robes,  which  must  stamp  and  paw  and 
shiver,  and  endure  the  day  as  best  they  might, 
while  the  New  Year's  examination  went  on. 
Everybody  had  come.  The  fame  of  the  sing 
ing  of  the  Wissan  Bridge  school  had  spread 
far  and  near,  and  it  had  been  whispered  about 
that  there  was  to  be  a  "piece"  sung  which 
was  finer  than  anything  ever  sung  in  the 
Charlottetown  churches. 

The  school-house  was  decorated  with  ever 
greens,  —  pine  and  spruce.  The  New  Year's 
Day-  having  fallen  on  a  Monday,  Little  Bel 
had  had  a  clear  working-day  on  the  Saturday 
previous  ;  and  her  faithful  henchmen,  Archie 
and  Sandy,  had  been  busy  every  evening  for 
a  week  drawing  the  boughs  on  their  sleds  and 
piling  them  up  in  the  yard.  The  teacher's 
desk  had  been  removed,  and  in  its  place  stood 
the  shining  red  mahogany  piano,  —  a  new  and 
wonderful  sight  to  many  eyes  there. 

All  was  ready,  the  room  crowded  full,  and 
the  Board  of  Trustees  not  yet  arrived.  There 
sat  their  three  big  arm-chairs  on  the  raised 
platform,  empty,  —  a  depressing  and  per 
plexing  sight  to  Little  Bel,  who,  in  her  short 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       199 

blue  merino  gown,  with  a  knot  of  pink  ribbon 
at  her  throat,  and 'a  roll  of  white  paper  (her 
schedule  of  exercises)  in  her  hand,  stood  on 
the  left  hand  of  the  piano,  her  eyes  fixed  ex 
pectantly  on  the  doors.  The  minutes  length 
ened  out  into  quarter  of  an  hour,  half  an 
hour.  Anxiously  Bel  consulted  with  her 
father  what  should  be  done. 

"  The  roads  are  something  fearfu',  child," 
he  replied  ;  "  we  must  make  big  allowance 
for  that.  They  're  sure  to  be  cornin',  at  least 
some  one  o'  them.  It  was  never  known  that 
they  failed  on  the  New  Year's  examination, 
an'  it  would  seem  a  sore  disrespect  to  begin 
without  them  here." 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking  there  was 
heard  a  merry  jingling  of  bells  outside,  doz 
ens  and  dozens  it  seemed,  and  hilarious  voices 
and  laughter,  and  the  snorting  of  overdriven 
horses,  and  the  stamping  of  feet,  and  more 
voices  and  more  laughter.  Everybody  looked 
in  his  neighbor's  face.  What  sounds  were 
these  ?  Who  ever  heard  a  sober  School 
Board  arrive  in  such  fashion  as  this  ?  But 
it  was  the  School  Board,  —  nothing  less:  a 
good  deal  more,  however.  Little  Bel's  heart 


200  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

sank  within  her  as  she  saw  the  foremost  fig 
ure  entering  the  room.     What  evil   destiny 
had  brought  Sandy  Bruce  in  the  character  of 
school  visitor  that  day  ?  —  Sandy  Bruce,  re 
tired    school-teacher   himself,  superintendent 
of  the  hospital  in  Charlottetown,  road-master, 
ship-owner,  exciseman,  —  Sandy  Bruce,  whose 
sharp    and   unexpected    questions    had   been 
known  to  floor  the  best  of  scholars  and  upset 
the  plans  of  the  best  of  teachers.     Yes,  here 
he  was,—  Sandy  Bruce  himself;  and  it  was  his 
fierce  little  Norwegian  ponies,  with  their  sil 
ver  bells  and  fur  collars,  the  admiration  of  all 
Charlottetown,  that  had  made  such  a  clatter 
and  stamping  outside,  and  were  still  keeping 
it  up ;  for  every  time   they  stirred   the  bells 
tinkled  like  a  peal  of  chimes.     And,  woe  upon 
woe,  behind  him  came,  not  Bel's  friend  and 
pastor,  Mr.  Allan,  but  the  crusty  old  Dalgetty, 
whose  doing  it  had  been  a  year  before,  as  Bel 
very  well  knew,  that  the  five-pound  supple 
ment  had  been  only  conditionally  promised. 

Conflicting  emotions  turned  Bel's  face  scar 
let  as  she  advanced  to  meet  them  ;  the  most 
casual  observer  could  not  have  failed  to  see 
that  dismay  predominated,  and  Sandy  Bruce 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.      2OI 

was  no  casual  observer  ;  nothing  escaped  his 
keen  glance  and  keener  intuition,  and  it  was 
almost  with  a  wicked  twinkle  in  his  little  ha 
zel  eyes  that  he  said,  still  shaking  off  the 
snow,  stamping  and  puffing :  "  Eh,  but  ye 
were  not  lookin'  for  me,  teacher  !  The  min 
ister  was  sent  for  to  go  to  old  Elspie  Breadal- 
bane,  who 's  dyin'  the  morn  ;  and  I  happened 
by  as  he  was  startin',  an'  he  made  me  promise 
to  come  i'  his  place  ;  an'  I  picked  up  my 
friend  Dalgetty  here  a  few  miles  back,  wi'  his 
horse  flounderin'  i'  the  drifts.  Except  for  me 
ye  'd  ha'  had  no  board  at  all  here  to-day ;  so  I 
hope  ye  '11  give  me  no  bad  welcome." 

As  he  spoke  he  was  studying  her  face, 
where  the  color  came  and  went  like  waves  ; 
not  a  thought  in  the  girl's  heart  he  did  not 
read.  "  Poor  little  lassie  !  "  he  was  thinking 
to  himself.  "  She's  shaking  in  her  shoes  with 
fear  o'  me.  I'll  not  put  her  out.  She's  a 
dainty  blossom  of  a  girl.  What's  kept  her 
from  being  trodden  down  by  these  Wissan 
Bridge  racketers,  I  'd  like  to  know." 

But  when  he  seated  himself  on  the  plat 
form,  and  took  his  first  look  at  the  rows  of 
pupils  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  he  was  near 


202  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

starting  with  amazement.  The  Wissan 
Bridge  "  racketers,"  as  he  had  mentally  called 
them,  were  not  to  be  seen.  Very  well  he 
knew  many  of  them  by  sight ;  for  his  shipping 
business  called  him  often  to  Wissan  Bridge, 
and  this  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  been 
inside  the  school-house,  which  had  been  so 
long  the  dread  and  terror  of  school  boards  and 
teachers  alike.  A  puzzled  frown  gathered  be 
tween  Sandy  Bruce's  eyebrows  as  he  gazed. 

"What  has  happened  to  the  youngsters, 
then  ?  Have  they  all  been  convarted  i'  this 
twelvemonth?"  he  was  thinking.  And  the 
flitting  perplexed  thought  did  not  escape  the 
observation  of  John  McDonald,  who  was  as 
quick  a  reader  of  faces  as  Sandy  himself, 
and  had  been  by  no  means  free  from  anxiety 
for  his  little  Bel  when  he  saw  the  redoubt 
able  visage  of  the  exciseman  appear  in  the 
doorway. 

"  He  's  takin'  it  in  quick  the  way  the 
bairn  's  got  them  a'  in  hand,"  thought  John. 
"  If  only  she  can  hold  hersel'  cool  now !  " 

No  danger.  Bel  was  not  the  one  to  lose 
a  battle  by  appearing  to  quail  in  the  out 
set,  however  clearly  she  might  see  herself 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       203 

outnumbered.  And  sympathetic  and  eager 
glances  from  her  constables,  Archie  and 
Sandy,  told  her  that  they  were  all  ready 
for  the  fray.  These  glances  Sandy  Bruce 
chanced  to  intercept,  and  they  heightened 
his  bewilderment.  To  Archie  McLeod  he 
was  by  no  means  a  stranger,  having  had  oc 
casion  more  than  once  to  deal  with  him,  boy 
as  he  was,  for  complications  with  riotous  mis 
doings.  He  had  happened  to  know,  also, 
that  it  was  Archie  McLeod  who  had  been 
head  and  front  of  the  last  year's  revolt  in  the 
school,  —  the  one  boy  that  no  teacher  hith 
erto  had  been  able  to  control.  And  here 
stood  Archie  McLeod,  rising  in  his  place, 
leader  of  the  form,  glancing  down  on  the 
boys  around  him  with  the  eye  of  a  general, 
watching  the  teacher's  eye,  meanwhile,  as  a 
dog  watches  for  his  master's  signal. 

And  the  orderly  yet  alert  and  joyously 
eager  expression  of  the  whole  school,  —  it 
had  so  much  the  look  of  a  miracle  to  Sandy 
Bruce's  eye,  that,  not  having  been  for  years 
accustomed  to  the  restraint  and  dignity  of 
school  visitors,  of  technical  official,  he  was 
on  the  point  of  giving  a  loud  whistle  of  as- 


204  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

tonishraent.  Luckily  recollecting  himself  in 
time,  he  smothered  the  whistle  and  the 
"  Whew  !  what 's  all  this  ?  "  which  had  been 
on  his  tongue's  end,  in  a  vigorous  and 
unnecessary  blowing  of  his  nose.  And  be 
fore  that  was  over,  and  his  eyes  well  wiped, 
there  stood  the  whole  school  on  its  feet  be 
fore  him,  and  the  room  ringing  with  such 
a  chorus  as  was  never  heard  in  a  Prince 
Edward  Island  school-room  before.  This 
completed  his  bewilderment,  and  swallowed 
it  up  in  delight.  If  Sandy  Bruce  had  an 
overmastering  passion  in  his  rugged  nature, 
it  was  for  music.  To  the  sound  of  the  bag 
pipes  he  had  often  said  he  would  march 
to  death  and  "  not  know  it  for  dyin'."  The 
drum  and  the  fife  could  draw  him  as  quickly 
now  as  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  the  sweet 
singing  of  a  woman's  voice  was  all  the  token 
he  wanted  of  the  certainty  of  heaven  and  the 
existence  of  angels. 

When  Little  Bel's  clear,  flute-like  soprano 
notes  rang  out,  carrying  along  the  fifty  young 
voices  she  led,  Sandy  jumped  up  on  his  feet, 
waving  his  hand,  in  a  sudden  heat  of  excite 
ment,  right  and  left ;  and  looking  swiftly  all 


LITTLE  BEL^S  SUPPLEMENT.       2O$ 

about  him  on  the  platform,  he  said  :  "  It 's 
not  sittin'  we'es  take  such  welcome  as  this, 
my  neebors  !  "  Each  man  and  woman  there, 
catching  the  quick  contagion,  rose ;  and  it 
was  a  tumultuous  crowd  of  glowing  faces 
that  pressed  forward  around  the  piano  as  the 
singing  went  on,  —  fathers,  mothers,  rustics, 
all ;  and  the  children,  pleased  and  astonished, 
sang  better  than  ever,  and  when  the  chorus 
was  ended  it  was  some  minutes  before  all 
was  quiet. 

Many  things  had  been  settled  in  that  few 
minutes.  John  McDonald's  heart  was  at  rest. 
"  The  music  '11  carry  a'  before  it,  no  matter 
if  they  do  make  a  failure  here  'n'  there,"  he 
thought.  "  The  bairn  is  a'  right."  The 
mother's  heart  was  at  rest  also. 

"  She  's  done  wonders  wi'  'em,  —  wonders  ! 
I  doubt  not  but  it  '11  go  through  as  it 's  be 
gun.  Her  face's  a  picture  to  look  on.  Bless 
her !  "  Isabella  was  saying  behind  her  placid 
smile. 

"  Eh,  but  she  's  won  her  guineas  out  o'  us," 
thought  old  Dalgetty,  ungrudgingly,  "and 
won  'em  well." 

"  I  don't  see  why  everybody  is  so  afraid 


206  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

of  Sandy  Bruce,"  thought  Little  Bel.  "  He 
looks  as  kind  and  as  pleased  as  my  own 
father.  I  don't  believe  he  '11  ask  any  o'  his 
botherm'  questions." 

What  Sandy  Bruce  thought  it  would  be 
hard  to  tell;  nearer  the  truth,  probably,  to 
say  that  his  head  was  in  too  much  of  a  whirl 
to  think  anything.  Certain  it  is  that  he  did 
not  ask  any  botherin'  questions,  but  sat, 
leaning  forward  on  his  stout  oaken  staff,  held 
firmly  between  his  knees,  and  did  not  move 
for  the  next  hour,  his  eyes  resting  alternately 
on  the  school  and  on  the  young  teacher,  who, 
now  that  her  first  fright  was  over,  was  con 
ducting  her  entertainment  with  the  composure 
and  dignity  of  an  experienced  instructor. 

The  exercises  were  simple,  —  declamations, 
reading  of  selected  compositions,  examina 
tions  of  the  principal  classes.  At  short  in 
tervals  came  songs  to  break  the  monotony. 
The  first  one  after  the  opening  chorus  was 
"  Banks  and  Braes  of  Bonnie  Doon."  At 
the  first  bars  of  this  Sandy  Bruce  could  not 
keep  silence,  but  broke  into  a  lone  accom 
paniment  in  a  deep  bass  voice,  untrained  but 
sweet. 


LITTLE  BEVS  SUPPLEMENT.       2O/ 

"Ah,"  thought  Little  Bel,  "what '11  he  say 
to  the  last  one,  I  wonder  ?  " 

When  the  time  came  she  found  out.  If 
she  had  chosen  the  arrangement  of  her  mu 
sic  with  full  knowledge  of  Sandy  Bruce's 
preferences,  and  with  the  express  determina 
tion  to  rouse  him  to  a  climax  of  enthusiasm, 
she  could  not  have  done  better. 

When  the  end  of  the  simple  programme  of 
recitations  and  exhibition  had  been  reached, 
she  came  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  plat 
form  —  her  cheeks  were  deep  pink  now,  and 
her  eyes  shone  with  excitement  —  and  said, 
turning  to  the  trustees  and  spectators  :  "  We 
have  finished,  now,  all  we  have  to  show  for 
our  year's  work,  and  we  will  close  our  en 
tertainment  by  singing  'Scots  wha  ha'  wi' 
Wallace  bled  ! '  " 

"  Ay,  ay !  that  wi'  we ! "  shouted  Sandy 
Bruce,  again  leaping  to  his  feet ;  and  as  the 
first  of  the  grand  chords  of  that  grand  old 
tune  rang  out  full  and  loud  under  Little  Bel's 
firm  touch,  he  strode  forward  to  the  piano, 
and  with  a  kindly  nod  to  her  struck  in. 

With  the  full  force  of  his  deep,  bass-like, 
violoncello  notes,  gathering  up  all  the  others 


208  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

and  fusing  them  into  a  pealing  strain,  it  was 
electin'.  Everybody  sang.  Old  voices,  that 
had  not  sung  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  or 
more,  joined  in.  It  was  a  furor  :  Dalgetty 
swung  his  tartan  cap,  Sandy  his  hat ;  hand 
kerchiefs  were  waved,  staves  rang  on  the  floor. 
The  children,  half  frightened  in  spite  of  their 
pleasure,  were  quieter  than  their  elders. 

"Eh,  but  it  was  good  fun  to  see  the  old 
folks  gone  crazy  for  once  !  "  said  Archie 
McLeod,  in  recounting  the  scene.  "  Now,  if 
they'd  get  that  way  oftener  they'd  not  be 
so  hard  down  on  us  youngsters." 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  song  the  first 
thing  Little  Bel  heard  was  Dalgetty's  piping 
voice  behind  her, — 

"  And  guineas  it  is,  Miss  McDonald. 
Ye've  won  it  fair  an'  square.  Guineas  it  is!" 

"  Eh,  what  ?  Guineas  !  What  is  't  ye  're 
sayin'  ?"  asked  Sandy  Bruce;  his  eyes,  steady 
glowing  like  coals,  gazing  at  Little  Bel. 

"  The  supplement,  sir,"  answered  Little 
Bel,  lifting  her  eyes  roguishly  to  his.  "  Mr. 
Dalgetty  thought  I  was  too  young  for  the 
school,  an'  he  'd  promise  me  no  supplement 
till  he  saw  if  I  'd  be  equal  to  't." 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       209 

This  was  the  sly  Bel's  little  revenge  on 
Dalgetty,  who  began  confusedly  to  explain 
that  it  was  not  he  any  more  than  the  other 
trustees,  and  he  only  wished  that  they  had 
all  been  here  to  see,  as  he  had  seen,  how 
finely  the  school  had  been  managed  ;  but 
nobody  heard  what  he  said,  for  above  all  the 
humming  and  buzzing  and  laughing  there 
came  up  from  the  centre  of  the  school-room 
a  reiterated  call  of  "  Sirs  !  "  "  Trustees  !  " 
"  Mr.  Trustee  !  "  "  Board  !  " 

It  was  Archie  McLeod,  standing  up  on  the 
backs  of  two  seats,  waving  a  white  paper, 
and  trying  frantically  to  make  himself  heard. 
The  face  of  a  man  galloping  for  life  and 
death,  coming  up  at  the  last  second  with  a  re 
prieve  for  one  about  to  be  shot,  could  hardly 
be  fuller  of  intense  anxiety  than  was  Archie's 
as  he  waved  his  paper  and  shouted. 

Little  Bel  gazed  bewilderingly  at  him. 
This  was  not  down  on  her  programme  of 
the  exercises.  What  could  it  be  ? 

As  soon  as  partial  silence  enabled  him  to 
speak,  Archie  proceeded  to  read  a  petition, 
setting  forth,  to  the  respected  Board  of  Trus 
tees,  that  the  undersigned,  boys  and  girls  of 
14 


210  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

the  Wissan  Bridge  School,  did  hereby  unani 
mously  request  that  they  might  have  no  other 
teacher  than  Miss  McDonald,  "  as  long  as  she 
lives." 

This  last  clause  had  been  the  cause  of  bit 
ter  disputing  between  Archie  and  Sandy,  — 
Sandy  insisting  upon  having  it  in  ;  Archie 
insisting  that  it  was  absurd,  because  they 
would  not  go  to  school  as  long  as  Miss  Mc 
Donald  lived.  "  But  there  's  the  little  ones 
and  the  babies  that  '11  be  growin'  up,"  re 
torted  Sandy,  "  an'  there  '11  never  be  another 
like  her :  I  say,  '  as  long  as  she  lives '  "  ;  and 
"  as  long  as  she  lives "  it  was.  And  when 
Archie,  with  an  unnecessary  emphasis,  deliv 
ered  this  closing  clause  of  the  petition,  it  was 
received  with  a  roar  of  laughter  from  the  plat 
form,  which  made  him  flush  angrily,  and  say, 
with  a  vicious  punch  in  Sandy's  ribs  :  "There, 
I  told  ye,  it  spoiled  it  a'.  They  're  fit  to  die 
over  it ;  an'  sma'  blame  to  'em,  ye  silly !  " 

But  he  was  reassured  when  he  heard  Sandy 
Bruce's  voice  overtopping  the  tumult  with: 
"  A  vary  sensible  request,  my  lad  ;  an'  I,  for 
one,  am  o'  yer  way  o'  thinkin'." 

In  which  speech  was  a  deeper  significance 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.       211 

than  anybody  at  the  time  dreamed.  In  that 
hurly-burly  and  hilarious  confusion  no  one  had 
time  to  weigh  words  or  note  meanings  ;  but 
there  were  some  who  recalled  it  a  few  months 
later  when  they  were  bidden  to  a  wedding  at 
the  house  of  John  McDonald,  —  a  wedding  at 
which  Sandy  Bruce  was  groom,  and  Little 
Bel  the  brightest,  most  winsome  of  brides. 

It  was  an  odd  way  that  Sandy  went  to 
work  to  win  her :  his  ways  had  been  odd  all 
his  life,  —  so  odd  that  it  had  long  ago  been 
accepted  in  the  minds  of  the  Charlottetown 
people  that  he  would  never  find  a  woman  to 
wed  him  ;  only  now  and  then  an  unusually 
perspicacious  person  divined  that  the  reason 
of  his  bachelorhood  was  not  at  all  that  women 
did  not  wish  to  wed  him,  spite  of  his  odd  ways, 
but  that  he  himself  found  no  woman  exactly 
to  his  taste. 

True  it  was  that  Sandy  Bruce,  aged  forty, 
had  never  yet  desired  any  woman  for  his  wife 
till  he  looked  into  the  face  of  Little  Bel  in  the 
Wissan  Bridge  school-house.  And  equally 
true  was  it  that  before  the  last  strains  of 
"  Scots  wha  ha  wi'  Wallace  bled  "  had  died 
away  on  that  memorable  afternoon  of  her 


212  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

exhibition  of  her  school,  he  had  determined 
that  his  wife  she  should  be. 

This  was  the  way  he  took  to  win  her.  No 
one  can  deny  that  it  was  odd. 

There  was  some  talk  between  him  and  his 
temporary  colleague  on  the  School  Board,  old 
Dalgetty,  as  they  drove  home  together  behind 
the  brisk  Norwegian  ponies  ;  and  the  result  of 
this  conversation  was  that  the  next  morning 
early  —  in  fact,  before  Little  Bel  was  dressed, 
so  late  had  she  been  indulged,  for  once,  in 
sleeping,  after  her  hard  labors  in  the  exhibi 
tion  the  day  before — the  Norwegian  ponies 
were  jingling  their  bells  at  John  McDonald's 
door  ;  and  John  himself  might  have  been  seen, 
with  a  seriously  puzzled  face,  listening  to 
words  earnestly  spoken  by  Sandy,  as  he  shook 
off  the  snow  and  blanketed  the  ponies. 

As  the  talk  progressed,  John  glanced  up 
involuntarily  at  Little  Bel's  window.  Could 
it  be  that  he  sighed  ?  At  any  rate,  there  was 
no  regret  in  his  heart  as  he  shook  Sandy's 
hand  warmly,  and  said  :  "  Ye  've  my  free  con 
sent  to  try  ;  but  I  doubt  she 's  not  easy  won. 
She's  her  head  now,  an'  her  ain  way;  but 
she 's  a  good  lass,  an'  a  sweet  one." 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.      213 

"  An'  I  need  no  man  to  tell  me  that,"  said 
the  dauntless  Sandy,  as  he  gave  back  the 
hearty  hand-grip  of  his  friend ;  "  an'  she  '11 
never  repent  it,  the  longest  day  o'  her  life,  if 
she  '11  ha'  me  for  her  man."  And  he  strode 
into  the  house,  bearing  in  his  hand  the  five 
golden  guineas  which  his  friend  Dalgetty 
had,  at  his  request,  commissioned  him  to 
pay. 

"  Into  her  own  hand,  mind  ye,  mon," 
chuckled  Dalgetty,  mischievously.  "Ye '11 
not  be  leavin'  it  wi'  the  mither."  To  which 
sly  satire  Sandy's  only  reply  was  a  soft  laugh 
and  nod  of  his  head. 

As  soon  as  Little  Bel  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  room  where  Sandy  Bruce  stood  waiting 
for  her,  she  knew  the  errand  on  which  he  had 
come.  It  was  written  in  his  face.  Neither 
could  it  be  truthfully  said  to  be  a  surprise  to 
Little  Bel ;  for  she  had  not  been  woman,  had 
she  failed  to  recognize  on  the  previous  day 
that  the  rugged  Scotchman's  whole  nature 
had  gone  out  toward  her  in  a  sudden  and 
overmastering  attraction. 

Sandy  looked  at  her  keenly.  "  Eh,  ye 
know 't  a' ready,"  he  said,  —  "  the  thing  I  came 


214  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

to  say  t'  ye."     And  he  paused,  still  eying  her 
more  like  a  judge  than  a  lover. 

Little  Bel  turned  scarlet.  This  was  not  her 
ideal  of  a  wooer.  "  Know  what,  Mr.  Bruce  ? " 
she  said  resentfully.  "  How  should  I  know 
what  ye  came  to  say  ? " 

"  Tush !  tush,  lass !  do  na  prevaricate," 
Sandy  began,  his  eyes  gloating  on  her  lovely 
confusion;  "do  na  preteend  — "  But  the 
sweet  blue  eyes  were  too  much  for  him. 
Breaking  down  utterly,  he  tossed  the  guineas 
to  one  side  on  the  table,  and  stretching  out 
both  hands  toward  Bel,  he  exclaimed,  — 

"Ye 're  the  sweetest  thing  the  eyes  o'  a 
mon  ever  rested  on,  lass,  an'  I  'm  goin'  to  win 
ye  if  ye '11  let  me."  And  as  Bel  opened  her 
mouth  to  speak,  he  laid  one  hand,  quietly  as 
a  mother  might,  across  her  lips,  and  contin 
ued  :  "  Na  !  na  !  I  '11  not  let  ye  speak  yet. 
I  'm  not  a  silly  to  look  for  ye  to  be  ready  to 
say  me  yes  at  this  quick  askin'  ;  but  I'll  not 
let  ye  say  me  nay  neither.  Ye  '11  not  refuse 
me  the  only  thing  I  'm  askin'  the  day,  an' 
that 's  that  ye  '11  let  me  try  to  make  ye  love  me. 
Ye  '11  not  say  nay  to  that,  lass.  I  '11  gie  my 
life  to  it."  And  now  he  waited  for  an  answer. 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT,       215 

None  came.  Tears  were  in  Bel's  eyes  as 
she  looked  up  in  his  face.  Twice  she  opened 
her  lips  to  speak,  and  twice  her  heart  and 
the  words  failed  her.  The  tears  became  drops 
and  rolled  down  the  cheeks.  Sandy  was 
dismayed. 

"Ye 're  not  afraid  o'  me,  ye  sweet  thing, 
are  ye  ?  "  he  gasped  out.  "  I  'd  not  vex  ye  for 
the  world.  If  ye  bid  me  to  go,  I  'd  go." 

"  No,  I  'm  not  afraid  o'  ye,  Mr.  Bruce," 
sobbed  Bel.  "I  don't  know  what  it  is  makes 
me  so  silly.  I  'm  not  afraid  o'  ye,  though. 
But  I  was  for  a  few  minutes  yesterday,"  she 
added  archly,  with  a  little  glint  of  a  roguish 
smile,  which  broke  through  the  tears  like  an 
April  sun  through  rain,  and  turned  Sandy's 
head  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  he  said  ;  "  I  minded  it  weel,  an' 
I  said  to  myself  then,  in  that  first  sight  I  had 
o'  yer  face,  that  I  'd  not  harm  a  hair  o'  yer 
head.  Oh,  my  little  lass,  would  ye  gie  me  a 
kiss, —  just  one,  to  show  ye 're  not  afraid, 
and  to  gie  me  leave  to  try  to  win  ye  out 
o'  likin'  into  lovin'  ? "  he  continued,  drawing 
closer  and  bending  toward  her. 

And    then    a   wonderful    thing    happened. 


216  BETWEEN   WHILES. 


Little  Bel,  who,  although  she  was  twenty 
years  old,  and  had  by  no  means  been  with 
out  her  admirers,  had  never  yet  kissed  any 
man  but  her  father  and  brothers,  put  up  her 
rosy  lips,  as  confidingly  as  a  little  child,  to 
be  kissed  by  this  strange  wooer,  who  wooed 
only  for  leave  to  woo. 

"An'  if  he'd  only  known  it,  he  might  ha* 
asked  a'  he  wanted  then  as  well  as  later," 
said  Little  Bel,  honestly  avowing  the  whole 
to  her  mother.  "As  soon  as  he  put  his 
hands  on  me  the  very  heart  in  me  said  he 
was  my  man  for  a'  my  life.  An'  there  's  no 
shame  in  it  that  I  can  see.  If  a  man  may 
love  that  way  in  the  lighting  of  an  eye,  why 
may  not  a  girl  do  the  same  ?  There  's  not 
one  kind  o'  heart  i'  the  breast  of  a  man  an' 
another  kind  i'  the  breast  of  a  woman,  as 
ever  I  heard."  In  which  Little  Bel,  in  her 
innocence,  was  wiser  than  people  wiser  than 
she. 

And  after  this  there  is  no  need  of  telling 
more,  —  only  a  picture  or  two  which  are  per 
haps  worth  sketching  in  few  words.  One  is 
the  expression  which  was  seen  on  Sandy 
Bruce's  face  one  day,  not  many  weeks  after 


LITTLE  BEL'S  SUPPLEMENT.      2l/ 

his  first  interview  with  Little  Bel,  when,  in 
reply  to  his  question,  "  An'  now,  my  own  lass, 
what  '11  ye  have  for  your  weddin*  gift  from 
me  ?  Tell  me  the  thing  ye  want  most  i'  a' 
the  earth,  an'  if  it 's  in  my  means  ye  shall 
have  it  the  day  ye  gie  me  the  thing  I  want 
maist  i'  the  whole  earth." 

"  I  've  got  it  a'ready,  Sandy,"  said  Little 
Bel,  taking  his  face  in  her  hands,  and  making 
a  feint  of  kissing  him  ;  then  withdrawing 
coquettishly.  Wise,  innocent  Bel !  Sandy 
understood. 

"Ay,  my  lass;  but  next  to  me.  What's 
the  next  thing  ye  'd  have  ?  " 

Bel  hesitated.  Even  to  her  wooer's  gen 
erosity  it  might  seem  a  daring  request,  —  the 
thing  she  craved. 

"  Tell  me,  lass,"  said  Sandy,  sternly.  "  I  Ve 
mair  money  than  ye  think.  There  's  no  lady 
in  a'  Charlottetown  can  go  finer  than  ye  if 
ye  've  a  mind." 

"  For  shame,  Sandy  !  "  cried  Bel.  "  An' 
you  to  think  it  was  fine  apparel  I  'd  be 
askin' !  It's  a  —  a"  —  the  word  refused  to 
leave  her  tongue  —  "a  —  piano,  Sandy;"  and 
she  gazed  anxiously  at  him.  "  I  '11  never  ask 


218  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

ye  for  another  thing  till  the  day  o'  my  death, 
Sandy,  if  ye  '11  gie  me  that." 

Sandy  shouted  in  delight.  For  a  brief 
space  a  fear  had  seized  him  —  of  which  he 
now  felt  shame  indeed  —  that  his  sweet  lassie 
might  be  about  to  ask  for  jewels  or  rich  at 
tire  ;  and  it  would  have  sorely  hurt  Sandy's 
pride  in  her  had  this  been  so. 

"  A  piano  !  "  he  shouted.  "  An'  did  ye  not 
think  I  'd  that  a' ready  in  my  mind  ?  O* 
coorse,  a  piano,  an'  every  other  instrument 
under  the  skies  that  ye  '11  wish,  my  lass,  ye 
shall  have.  The  more  music  ye  make,  the 
gladder  the  house  '11  be.  Is  there  nothin' 
else  ye  want,  lass,  —  nothin'  ?  " 

"  Nothing  in  all  this  world,  Sandy,  but  you 
and  a  piano,"  replied  Little  Eel. 

The  other  picture  was  on  a  New  Year's 
Day,  just  a  twelvemonth  from  the  day  of 
Little  Bel's  exhibition  in  the  Wissan  Bridge 
school-house.  It  is  a  bright  day  ;  the  sleigh 
ing  is  superb  all  over  the  island,  and  the 
Charlottetown  streets  are  full  of  gay  sleighs 
and  jingling  bells,  —  none  so  gay,  however, 
as  Sandy  Bruce's,  and  no  bells  so  merry  as 
the  silver  ones  on  his  fierce  little  Norwegian 


LITTLE  BEL^S  SUPPLEMENT.      219 

ponies,  that  curvet  and  prance,  and  are  all 
their  driver  can  hold.  Rolled  up  in  furs  to 
her  chin,  how  rosy  and  handsome  looks  Little 
Bel  by  her  husband's  side,  and  how  full  of 
proud  content  is  his  face  as  he  sees  the  peo 
ple  all  turning  to  look  at  her  beauty !  And 
who  is  this  driving  the  Norwegian  ponies  ? 
Who  but  Archie,  —  Archie  McLeod,  who  has 
followed  his  young  teacher  to  her  new  home, 
and  is  to  grow  up,  under  Sandy  Bruce's  teach 
ings,  into  a  sharp  and  successful  man  of  the 
shipping  business. 

And  as  they  turn  a  corner  they  come  near 
running  into  another  fur-piled,  swift-gliding 
sleigh,  with  a  grizzled  old  head  looking  out 
of  a  tartan  hood,  and  eyes  like  hawks',  — 
Dalgetty  himself;  and  as  they  pass  the  head 
nods  and  the  eyes  laugh,  and  a  sharp  voice 
cries,  "  Guineas  it  is  !  " 

"  Better  than  guineas  !  "  answered  back 
Mrs.  Sandy  Bruce,  quick  as  a  flash  ;  and  in 
the  same  second  cries  Archie,  from  the  front 
seat,  with  a  saucy  laugh,  "And  as  long  as 
she  lives,  Mr.  Dalgetty  !  " 


220  BETWEEN   WHILES. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  "HEATHER 
BELL." 

YOU  might  have  known  he  was  a  Scotch 
man  by  the  name  of  his  little  steamer ; 
and  if  you  had  not  known  it  by  that,  you 
would  have  known  it  as  soon  as  you  looked 
at  him.  Scotch,  pure,  unmitigated,  unmis 
takable  Scotch,  was  Donald  Mackintosh,  from 
the  crown  of  his  auburn  head  down  to  the 
soles  of  his  big  awkward  feet.  Six  feet  two 
inches  in  his  stockings  he  stood,  and  so 
straight  that  he  looked  taller  even  than  that ; 
blue-gray  eyes  full  of  a  canny  twinkle ; 
freckles,  —  yes,  freckles  that  were  really  past 
the  bounds  of  belief,  for  up  into  his  hair  they 
ran,  and  to  the  rims  of  his 'eyes,  —  no  pale, 
dull,  equivocal  freckles,  such  as  might  be  mis 
taken  for  dingy  spots  of  anything  else,  but 
brilliant,  golden-brown  freckles,  almost  au 
burn  like  his  hair.  Once  seen,  never  to  be 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  221 

forgotten  were  Donald  Mackintosh's  freckles. 
All  this  does  not  sound  like  the  description 
of  a  handsome  man  ;  but  we  are  not  through 
yet  with  what  is  to  be  said  about  Donald 
Mackintosh's  looks.  We  have  said  nothing 
of  his  straight  massive  nose,  his  tawny  curl 
ing  beard,  which  shaded  up  to  yellow  around 
a  broad  and  laughing  mouth,  where  were 
perpetually  flashing  teeth  of  an  even  ivory 
whiteness  a  woman  might  have  coveted.  No, 
not  handsome,  but  better  than  handsome,  was 
Donald  Mackintosh  ;  he  was  superb.  Every 
body  said  so  :  nobody  could  have  been  found 
to  dispute  it,  —  nobody  but  Donald  himself; 
he  thought,  honestly  thought,  he  was  hideous. 
All  that  he  could  see  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  he  looked  in  a  glass  was  an  expanse  of 
fiery  red  freckles,  topped  off  with  what  he 
would  have  called  a  shock  of  red  hair. 
Uglier  than  anything  he  had  ever  seen  in 
his  life,  he  said  to  himself  many  a  time,  and 
grew  shyer  and  shyer  and  more  afraid  of 
women  each  time  he  said  it  ;  and  all  this 
while  there  was  not  a  girl  in  Charlottetown 
that  did  not  know  him  in  her  thoughts,  if 
indeed  she  did  not  openly  speak  of  him,  as 


222  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

that  "  splendid  Donald  Mackintosh/'  or  "  the 
handsome  'Heather  Bell'  captain." 

But  nothing  could  have  made  Donald  be 
lieve  this,  which  was  in  one  way  a  pity,  though 
in  another  way  not.  If  he  had  known  how 
women  admired  him,  he  would  have  inevita 
bly  been  more  or  less  spoiled  by  it,  wasted 
his  time,  and  not  have  been  so  good  a  sailor. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  was  a  pity  to  see  him, 
—  forty  years  old,  and  alone  in  the  world,— 
not  a  chick  nor  a  child  of  his  own,  nor  any 
home  except  such  miserable  makeshifts  as  a 
sailor  finds  in  inns  or  boarding-houses. 

It  was  a  wonder  that  the  warm-hearted  fellow 
had  kept  a  cheery  nature  and  face  all  these 
years  living  thus.  But  the  "Heather  Bell" 
stood  to  him  in  place  of  wife,  children,  home. 
There  is  no  passion  in  life  so  like  the  passion 
of  a  man  for  a  woman  as  the  passion  of  a 
sailor  for  his  craft;  and  this  passion  Donald 
had  to  the  full.  It  was  odd  how  he  came  to 
be  a  born  sailor.  His  father  and  his  father's 
fathers,  as  far  back  as  they  knew,  had  been 
farmers  —  three  generations  of  them  —  on  the 
Prince  Edward  Island  farm  where  Donald  was 
born ;  and  still  more  generations  of  them  in 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.   22$ 

old  Scotland.  Pure  Scotch  on  both  sides  of 
the  house  for  hundreds  of  years  were  the 
Mackintoshes,  and  the  Gaelic  tongue  was 
to-day  freer  spoken  in  their  houses  than 
English. 

The  Mackintosh  farm  on  Prince  Edward 
Island  was  in  the  parish  of  Orwell  Head, 
and  Donald's  earliest  transgressions  and  ear 
liest  pleasures  were  runaway  excursions  to 
the  wharves  of  that  sleepy  shore.  To  him 
Spruce  Wharf  was  a  centre  of  glorious  mari 
time  adventure.  The  small  sloops  that  plied 
up  and  down  the  coast  of  the  island,  running 
in  at  the  inlets,  and  stopping  to  gather  up 
the  farmers'  produce  and  take  it  to  Charlotte- 
town  markets,  seemed  to  him  as  grand  as 
Indiamen ;  and  when,  in  his  twelfth  year,  he 
found  himself  launched  in  life  as  a  boy-of-all- 
work  on  one  of  these  sloops,  whose  captain 
was  a  friend  of  his  father's,  he  felt  that  his 
fortune  was  made.  And  so  it  was.  He  was 
in  the  line  of  promotion  by  virtue  of  his  own 
enthusiasm.  No  plank  too  small  for  the 
born  sailor  to  swim  by.  Before  Donald  was 
twenty-five  he  himself  commanded  one  of 
these  little  coasting-vessels.  From  this  he 


224  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

took  a  great  stride  forward,  and  became  first 
officer  on  the  iron-clad  steamer  plying  be 
tween  Charlottetown  and  the  mainland.  The 
winter  service  on  this  boat  was  terrible,  — 
ploughing  and  cutting  through  nearly  solid 
ice  for  long  days  and  nights  of  storm.  Don 
ald  did  not  like  it.  He  felt  himself  lost  out  in 
the  wild  channel.  His  love  was  for  the  water 
near  shore,  —  for  the  bays,  inlets,  and  river- 
mouths  he  had  known  since  he  was  a  child. 

He  began  to  think  he  was  not  so  much 
of  a  sailor  as  he  had  supposed,  —  so  great 
a  shrinking  grew  up  in  him  winter  after 
winter  from  the  perils  and  hardships  of  the 
mail-steamer's  route.  But  he  persevered  and 
bided  his  time,  and  in  ten  years  had  the  luck 
to  become  owner  and  master  of  a  trim  little 
coasting-steamer  which  had  been  known  for 
years  as  the  "  Sally  Wright,"  making  two 
trips  a  week  from  Charlottetown  to  Orwell 
Head, — known  as  the  "  Sally  Wright"  no 
longer,  however;  for  the  first  thing  Donald 
did  was  to  repaint  her,  from  stem  to  stern, 
white,  with  green  and  pink  stripes,  on  her 
prow  a  cluster  of  pink  heather  blossoms,  and 
"  Heather  Bell "  in  big  letters  on  the  side. 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.   22$ 

When  he  was  asked  where  he  got  this 
fancy  name,  he  said,  lightly,  he  did  not 
know;  it  was  a  good  Scotch  name.  This 
was  not  true.  Donald  knew  very  well.  On 
the  window-sill  in  his  mother's  kitchen  had 
stood  always  a  pot  of  pink  heather.  Come 
summer,  come  winter,  the  place  was  never 
without  a  young  heather  growing;  and  the 
dainty  pink  bells  were  still  to  Donald  the 
man,  as  they  had  been  to  Donald  the  child, 
the  loveliest  flowers  in  the  world.  But  he 
would  not  for  the  profits  of  many  a  trip  have 
told  his  comrade  captains  why  he  had  named 
his  boat  the  "Heather  Bell."  He  had  a 
sentiment  about  the  name  which  he  himself 
hardly  understood.  It  seemed  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  occasion ;  but  a  day  was 
coming  when  it  would  seem  more  like  a 
prophecy  than  a  mere  sentiment.  He  had 
builded  better  than  he  knew  when  he  chose 
that  name  for  the  thing  nearest  his  heart. 

Charlottetown  is  not  a  gay  place ;  its 
standards  and  methods  of  amusement  are 
simple  and  primitive.  Among  the  summer 
pleasures  of  the  young  people  picnics  still 
rank  high,  and  picnic  excursions  by  steam- 
15 


226  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

boat  or  sloop  highest  of  all.     Through  June 
and  July   hardly  a  daily  newspaper  can  be 
found  which  does  not  contain  the  advertise 
ment  of   one   or   more   of  these   excursions. 
After  Donald   made  his  little  boat  so  fresh 
and  gay  with  the  pink  and  green  colors,  and 
gave  her  the  winning  new  name,  she  came 
to  be  in  "great  demand  for  these  occasions. 
How  much  the  captain's  good  looks  had 
to  do  with  the  "  Heather  Bell's  "  popularity  as 
a  pleasure-boat  it  would  not  do  to  ask ;  but 
there  was  reason  enough  for  her  being  liked 
aside  from  that.     Sweet  and  fresh  in  and  out, 
with  white  deck,  the  chairs  and  settees  all 
painted  green,  and  a  gay  streamer  flying,  — 
white,  with  three  green  bars,  —  and  "Donald 
Mackintosh,  Captain,"  in  green  letters,  and 
below   these   a   spray   of   pink   heather,   she 
looked  more   like  a  craft  for  festive  sailing 
than  for  cruising  about  from  one  farm-land 
ing  to  another,  picking  up  odds  and  ends  of 
farm  produce,  —  eggs   and    butter,  and  oats 
and  wool,  —  with  now  and  then  a  passenger. 
Donald   liked    this    slow    cruising    and    the 
market-work    best  ;    but    the    picnic   parties 
were  profitable,  and  he  took  them  whenever 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  22J 

he  could.  He  kept  apart,  however,  from  the 
merry-makers  as  much  as  possible,  and  was 
always  glad  at  night  when  he  had  landed  his 
noisy  cargo  safe  back  at  the  Charlottetown 
piers. 

This  disposition  on  his  part  to  hold  him 
self  aloof  was  greatly  irritating  to  the  Char 
lottetown  girls,  and  to  no  one  of  them  so 
much  as  to  pretty  Katie  McCloud,  who, 
because  she  was  his  second  cousin  and  had 
known  him  all  her  life,  felt,  and  not  without 
reason,  that  he  ought  to  pay  her  something 
in  the  shape  or  semblance  of  attention  when 
she  was  on  board  his  boat,  even  if  she  were 
a  member  of  a  large  and  gay  party,  most  of 
whom  were  strangers  to  him.  There  was 
another  reason,  too  ;  but  Katie  had  kept  it 
so  long  locked  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart 
that  she  hardly  realized  its  force  and  cogency, 
and,  if  she  had,  would  have  laughed,  and  put 
it  as  far  from  her  thoughts  as  she  could. 

The  truth  was,  Katie  had  been  in  love  with 
Donald  ever  since  she  was  ten  years  old  and 
he  was  twenty, — a  long  time,  seeing  that  she 
was  now  thirty  and  he  forty ;  and  never  once, 
either  in  their  youth  or  their  middle  age,  had 


228  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

there  been  a  word  of  love-making  between 
them.  All  the  same,  deep  in  her  heart  the 
good  little  Katie  had  kept  the  image  of  Don 
ald  in  sacred  tenderness  by  itself.  No  other 
man's  love-making,  however  earnest,  —  and 
Katie  had  been  by  no  means  without  lovers, 
—  had  so  much  as  touched  this  sentiment. 
She  judged  them  all  by  this  secret  standard, 
and  found  them  all  wanting.  She  did  not 
pine,  neither  did  she  take  a  step  of  forward 
ness,  or  even  coquettish  advance,  to  Donald. 
She  was  too  full  of  Scotch  reticence  for  that. 
The  only  step  she  did  take,  in  hope  of  bring 
ing  him  nearer  to  her,  was  the  going  to  Char- 
lottetown  to  learn  the  milliner's  trade. 

Poor  Katie  !  if  she  had  but  known  she  threw 
away  her  last  chance  when  she  did  it.  She 
reasoned  that  Donald  was  in  Charlottetown 
far  more  than  he  was  anywhere  else ;  that  if 
she  stayed  at  home  on  the  farm  she  could  see 
him  only  by  glimpses,  when  the  "  Heather 
Bell "  ran  in  at  their  landing,  —  in  and  out 
and  off  again  in  an  hour.  What  was  that  ? 
And  maybe  a  Sunday  once  or  twice  a  year, 
and  at  a  Christmas  gathering.  No  wonder 
Katie  thought  that  in  the  town  where  his 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  229 

business  lay  and  he  slept  three  nights  a  week 
she  would  have  a  far  better  chance  ;  that  he 
would  be  glad  to  come  and  see  her  in  her 
tidy  little  shop.  But  when  Donald  heard 
what  she  had  done,  he  said  gruffly :  "  Just 
like  the  rest ;  all  for  ribbons  and  laces  and 
silly  gear.  I  thought  Katie  'd  more  sense. 
Why  did  n't  she  stay  at  home  on  the  farm  ? " 
And  he  said  as  much  to  her  when  he  first 
saw  her  in  her  new  quarters.  She  tried  to 
explain  to  him  that  she  wanted  to  support 
herself,  and  she  could  not  do  it  on  the  farm. 

"No  need,  —  no  need,"  said  her  relentless 
cousin  ;  "  there  was  plenty  for  all  on  the  farm." 
And  all  the  while  he  stood  glowering  at  the 
counter  spread  with  gay  ribbons  and  artificial 
flowers,  and  Katie  was  ready  to  cry.  This  was 
in  the  first  year  of  her  life  in  Charlottetown. 
She  was  only  twenty-two  then.  In  the  eight 
years  since  then  matters  had  quieted  down 
with  Katie.  It  seemed  certain  that  Donald 
would  never  marry.  Everybody  said  so.  And 
if  a  man  had  lived  till  forty  without  it,  what 
else  could  be  expected  ?  If  Katie  had  seen 
him  seeking  other  women,  her  quiet  and  un 
rewarded  devotion  would  no  doubt  have 


230  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

flamed  up  in  jealous  pain.  But  she  knew 
that  he  gave  to  her  as  much  as  he  gave  to 
any,  —  occasional  and  kindly  courtesy,  no  less, 
no  more. 

So  the  years  slipped  by,  and  in  her  patient 
industry  Katie  forgot  how  old  she  was  grow 
ing,  until  suddenly,  on  her  thirtieth  birthday, 
something  —  the  sight  of  a  deepened  line 
on  her  face,  perhaps,  or  a  pang  of  memory 
of  the  old  childish  past,  such  as  birthdays 
always  bring  —  something  smote  her  with  a 
sudden  consciousness  that  life  itself  was  slip 
ping  away,  and  she  was  alone.  No  husband, 
no  child,  no  home,  except  as  she  earned  each 
month,  by  fashioning  bonnets  and  caps  for 
the  Charlottetown  women,  money  enough  to 
pay  the  rent  of  the  two  small  rooms  in  which 
she  slept,  cooked,  and  plied  her  trade.  Some 
tears  rolled  down  Katie's  face  as  she  sat  be 
fore  her  looking-glass  thinking  these  unwel 
come  thoughts.  - 

"  I  '11  go  to  the  Orwell  Head  picnic  to 
morrow,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  It 's  so  near 
the  old  place  perhaps  Donald '11  walk  over 
home  with  me.  It's  long  since  he's  seen  the 
farm,  I  '11  be  bound." 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.   231 

Now,  Katie  did  not  say  to  herself  in  so 
many  words,  "  It  will  be  like  old  times  when 
we  were  young,  and  it  may  be  something  will 
stir  in  Donald's  heart  for  me  at  the  sight  of 
the  fields."  Not  only  did  she  not  say  this  ; 
she  did  not  know  that  she  thought  it ;  but  it 
was  there,  all  the  same,  a  lurking,  newly  re 
vived,  vague,  despairing  sort  of  hope.  And 
because  it  was  there  she  spent  half  the  day 
retrimming  a  bonnet  and  washing  and  ironing 
a  gown  to  wear  to  the  picnic  ;  and  after  long 
and  anxious  pondering  of  the  matter,  she  de 
liberately  took  out  of  her  best  box  of  artificial 
flowers  a  bunch  of  white  heather,  and  added 
it  to  the  bonnet  trimming.  It  did  not  look 
overmuch  like  heather,  and  it  did  not  suit  the 
bonnet,  of  which  Katie  was  dimly  aware  ;  but 
she  wanted  to  say  to  Donald,  "  See,  I  put  a 
sprig  of  heather  in  my  bonnet  in  honor  of 
your  boat  to-day."  Simple  little  Katie  ! 

It  was  a  large  and  noisy  picnic,  of  the  very 
sort  Donald  most  disliked,  and  he  kept  him 
self  out  of  sight  until  the  last  moment,  just 
before  they  swung  round  at  Spruce  Wharf. 
Then,  as  he  stood  on  the  upper  deck  giving 
orders  about  the  flinging  out  of  the  ropes, 


232  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

Katie  looked  up  at  him  from  below,  and  called, 
in  a  half-whisper :  "  Oh,  Donald,  I  was  think 
ing  I  'd  walk  over  home  instead  of  staying  here 
to  the  dance.  Would  n't  ye  be  goin'  with  me, 
Donald  ?  They  'd  be  glad  to  see  ye." 

"Ay,  Katie,"  answered  Donald  ;  "  that  will 
I,  and  be  glad  to  be  out  of  this."  And  as  soon 
as  the  boat  was  safely  moored,  he  gave  his 
orders  to  his  mate  for  the  day,  and  leaping 
down  joined  the  glad  Katie  ;  and  before  the 
picnickers  had  even  missed  them  they  were 
well  out  of  sight,  walking  away  briskly  over 
the  brown  fields. 

Katie  was  full  of  happiness.  As  she 
glanced  up  into  Donald's  face  she  found  it 
handsomer  and  kinder  than  she  had  seen  it, 
she  thought,  for  many  years. 

"  It  was  for  this  I  came,  Donald,"  she  said 
merrily.  "  When  I  heard  the  dance  was  to 
be  in  the  Spruce  Grove  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  come  and  surprise  the  folks.  It's  nigh  six 
months  since  I  've  been  home." 

"  Pity  ye  ever  left  it,  my  girl,"  said  Donald, 
gravely.  "  The  home 's  the  place  for  women." 
But  he  said  it  in  a  pleasant  tone,  and  his  eyes 
rested  affectionately  on  Katie's  face. 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  233 

"  Eh,  but  ye  're  bonny  to-day,  Katie  ;  do  ye 
know  it  ? "  he  continued,  his  glance  lingering 
on  her  fresh  color  and  her  smiling  face.  In 
his  heart  he  was  saying :  "  An'  what  is  it 
makes  her  so  young-looking  to-day  ?  It  was 
an  old  face  she  had  on  the  last  time  I  saw 
her." 

Happiness,  Donald,  happiness  !  Even  those 
few  minutes  of  it  had  worked  the  change. 

Encouraged  by  this  praise,  Katie  said, 
pointing  to  the  flowers  in  her  bonnet,  "It's 
the  heather  ye 're  meanin',  maybe,  Donald, 
an*  not  me  ? " 

"  An'  it 's  not,"  he  replied  earnestly,  almost 
angrily,  with  a  scornful  glance  at  the  flowers. 
"Ye '11  not  be  callin'  that  heather.  Did  ye 
never  see  true  heather,  Katie  ?  It  Js  no  more 
like  the  stalks  ye  Ve  on  yer  head  than  a  bar 
row  's  like  my  boat  yonder." 

Which  was  not  true :  the  flowers  were  of 
the  very  best  ever  imported  into  Charlotte- 
town,  and  were  a  better  representation  of 
heather  than  most  artificial  flowers  are  of  the 
blossoms  whose  names  they  bear.  Donald 
was  not  a  judge  ;  and  if  he  had  been,  it  was 
a  cruel  thing  to  say.  Katie's  eyes  drooped  : 


234  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

she  had  made  a  serious  sacrifice  in  putting  so 
dear  a  bunch  of  flowers  on  her  bonnet,  —  a 
bunch  that  she  had,  in  her  own  mind,  been 
sure  Lady  Gownas,  of  Gownas  House,  would 
buy  for  her  summer  bonnet.  She  had  made 
this  sacrifice  purely  to  please  Donald,  and 
this  was  what  had  come  of  it.  Poor  Katie ! 
However,  nothing  could  trouble  her  long  to 
day,  with  Donald  by  her  side  in  the  sunny, 
bright  fields  ;  and  she  would  have  him  to  her 
self  till  four  in  the  afternoon. 

As  they  drew  near  the  farm-house  a  strange 
sound  fell  on  their  ears  ;  it  was  as  if  a  million 
of  beehives  were  in  full  blast  of  buzzing  in 
the  air.  At  the  same  second  both  Donald 
and  Katie  paused,  listening.  "  What  can  that 
be,  now  ? "  exclaimed  Donald.  Before  the 
words  had  left  his  lips,  Katie  cried,  "  It 's  a 
bee  !  —  Elspie's  spinning-bee." 

The  spinning-bees  are  great  fetes  among 
the  industrious  maidens  of  Prince  Edward 
Island.  After  the  spring  shearings  are  over, 
the  wool  washed  and  carded  and  made  into 
rolls,  there  begin  to  circulate  invitations  to 
spinning-bees  at  the  different  farm-houses. 
Each  girl  carries  her  spinning-wheel  on  her 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL,   235 

shoulder.  By  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning 
all  are  gathered  and  at  work :  some  of  them 
have  walked  ten  miles  or  more,  and  barefoot 
too,  their  shoes  slung  over  the  shoulder  with 
the  wheel.  Once  arrived,  they  waste  no  time. 
The  rolls  of  wool  are  piled  high  in  the  cor 
ners  of  the  rooms,  and  it  is  the  ambition  of 
each  one  to  spin  all  she  can  before  dark.  At 
ten  o'clock  cakes  and  lemonade  are  served ; 
at  twelve,  the  dinner,  —  thick  soup,  roast  meat, 
vegetables,  coffee  and  tea,  and  a  pudding. 
All  are  seated  at  a  long  table,  and  the  host 
esses  serve  ;  at  six  o'clock  comes  supper,  and 
then  the  day's  work  is  done ;  after  that  a  lit 
tle  chat  or  a  ramble  over  the  farm,  and  at 
eight  o'clock  all  are  off  for  home.  No  young 
men,  no  games,  no  dances ;  yet  the  girls  look 
forward  to  the  bees  as  their  greatest  spring 
pleasures,  and  no  one  grudges  the  time  or  the 
strength  they  take. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  big  bee  that  Elspie  Mc- 
Cloud  was  having  this  June  morning.  Twenty 
young  girls,  all  in  long  white  aprons,  were 
spinning  away  as  if  on  a  wager  when  Donald 
and  Katie  appeared  at  the  door.  The  door 
opened  directly  into  the  large  room  where 


236  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

they  were.  Katie  went  first,  Donald  hanging 
back  behind.  "  I  think  I  '11  not  go  in,"  he 
was  shamefacedly  saying,  and  halting  on  the 
step,  when  above  all  the  wheel-whirring  and 
yarn-singing  came  a  glad  cry,  — 

"Why,  there's  Katie  — Katie  McCloud ! 
and  Donald  Mackintosh  !  For  pity's  sake  !  " 
(the  Prince  Edward  Islander's  strongest  ejac 
ulation.)  "  Come  in  !  come  in  !  "  And  in  a 
second  more  a  vision,  it  seemed  to  the  dazed 
Donald,  —  but  it  was  not  a  vision  at  all,  only  a 
buxom  young  girl  in  a  blue  homespun  gown, 
—  had  seized  him  with  one  hand  and  Katie 
with  the  other,  and  drawn  them  both  into 
the  room,  into  the  general  whir  and  melee  of 
wheels,  merry  faces,  and  still  merrier  voices. 

It  was  Elspie,  Katie's  youngest  sister, — 
Katie's  special  charge  and  care  when  she  was 
a  baby,  and  now  her  special  pet.  The  great 
est  desire  of  Katie's  heart  was  to  have  Elspie 
with  her  in  Charlottetown,  but  the  father  and 
mother  would  not  consent. 

Donald  stood  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  He 
did  not  know  it ;  but  from  the  moment  his  eyes 
first  fell  on  Elspie's  face  they  had  followed  it 
as  iron  follows  the  magnet.  Were  there  ever 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.   237 

such  sweet  gray  eyes  in  the  world  ?  and  such 
a  pink  and  white  skin  ?  and  hair  yellow  as 
gold  ?  And  what,  oh,  what  did  she  wear 
tucked  in  at  the  belt  of  her  white  apron  but  a 
sprig  of  heather  !  Pink  heather,  — true,  gen 
uine,  actual  pink  heather,  such  as  Donald  had 
not  seen  for  many  a  year.  No  wonder  the 
eyes  of  the  captain  of  the  "  Heather  Bell " 
followed  that  spray  of  pink  heather  wherever 
it  went  flitting  about  from  place  to  place, 
never  long  in  one,  —  for  it  was  now  time  for 
dinner,  and  Donald  and  the  old  people  were 
soon  seated  at  a  small  table  by  themselves, 
not  to  embarrass  the  young  girls,  and  Elspie 
and  Katie  together  served  the  dinner ;  and 
though  Elspie  never  once  came  to  the  small 
table,  yet  did  Donald  see  every  motion  she 
made  and  hear  every  note  of  her  lark's  voice. 
He  did  not  mistake  what  had  happened  to 
him.  Middle-aged,  inexperienced,  sober-souled 
man  as  he  was,  he  knew  that  at  last  he  had 
got  a  wound,  —  a  life  wound,  if  it  were  not 
healed,  —  and  the  consciousness  of  it  struck 
him  more  and  more  dumb,  till  his  presence 
was  like  a  damper  on  the  festivities  ;  so  much 
so,  that  when  at  three  in  the  afternoon  he 


238  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

and  Katie  took  their  departure,  the  door  had 
no  more  than  closed  on  them  before  Elspie 
exclaimed  pettishly:  "An'  indeed  I  wish 
Katie 'd  left  Cousin  Donald  behind.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  she  thinks  so  much  of  him 
for.  She's  always  sayin'  there's  none  like 
him;  an'  it's  lucky  it's  true.  The  great 
glowerin'  steeple  o'  a  man,  with  no  word  in 
his  mouth!"  And  the  young  maidens  all 
agreed  with  her.  It  was  a  strange  thing  for 
a  man  to  come  and  go  like  that,  with  nothing 
to  say  for  himself,  they  said,  and  he  so  hand 
some  too. 

"  Handsome  !  "  cried  Elspie  ;  "  is  it  hand 
some,  —  the  face  all  a  spatter  with  the  color 
of  the  hair  ?  He  's  nice  eyes  of  his  own,  but 
his  skin  's  deesgustin'."  Which  speech,  if 
Donald  had  overheard  it,  would  have  caused 
that  there  should  never  have  been  this  story 
to  tell.  But  luckily  Donald  did  not.  All  that 
he  bore  away  from  the  McCloud  farm-house 
that  June  morning  was  a  picture  of  a  face 
and  flitting  figure,  and  the  sound  in  his  ears 
of  a  voice,  —  a  picture  and  a  sound  which  he 
was  destined  to  see  and  hear  all  his  life. 

He  scarcely  spoke  on  his  way  back  to  the 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.   239 

boat,  and  Katie  perplexed  herself  vainly  try 
ing  to  account  for  his  silence.  It  must  be, 
she  thought,  that  he  had  been  vexed  by  the 
sight  of  so  many  girls  and  the  sound  of  their 
idle  chatter.  He  would  have  liked  it  better 
if  nobody  but  the  family  had  been  at  home. 
What  a  shame  for  a  man  to  live  alone  as  he 
did,  and  get  into  such  unsocial  ways!  He 
grew  more  and  more  averse  to  society  each 
year.  Now,  if  he  were  only  married,  and  had 
a  bright  home,  where  people  came  and  went, 
with  a  bit  of  a  tea  now  and  then,  how  good  it 
would  be  for  him,  —  take  the  stiffness  out  of 
his  ways,  and  make  him  more  as  he  used  to 
be  fifteen,  or  even  ten  years  ago  !  And  so 
the  good  Katie  went  on  in  her  placid  mind, 
trotting  along  silently  by  his  side,  waiting  for 
him  to  speak. 

"  Where  did  she  get  the  heather?  " 
"  What !  "    exclaimed   Katie.      The   irrele 
vant  question  sounded  like  the  speech  of  one 
talking  in  his  sleep.     "  Oh,"  she  continued, 
"  ye  mean  ELspie  !  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Donald.  "  She  'd  a  bit  of 
heather  in  her  belt,  —  the  true  heather,  not 
sticks  like  yon,"  pointing  a  contemptuous 


240  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

finger  toward  Katie's  bonnet.  "Where  did 
she  get  it  ?  " 

"  Mother 's  always  the  heather  growing 
in  the  house,"  answered  Katie.  "  She  says 
she  's  homesick  unless  she  sees  it.  It  was 
grandmother  brought  it  over  in  the  first,  and 
it 's  never  been  let  die  out." 

"  My  mother  the  same,"  said  Donald.  "  It 's 
the  first  blossom  I  remember,  an'  I  'm  think 
ing  it  will  be  the  last,"  he  continued,  gazing 
at  Katie  absently ;  but  his  face  did  not  look 
as  if  it  were  absently  he  gazed.  There  was  a 
glow  on  his  cheeks,  and  an  intense  expression 
in  his  eyes  which  Katie  had  never  seen  there. 
They  warmed  her  heart. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  one  can  never  forget 
what  one  has  loved  in  the  youth." 

"  True,  Katie,  true.  There  's  nothing  like 
one's  own  and  earliest,"  replied  Donald,  full 
of  his  new  and  thrilling  emotion ;  and  as  he 
said  it  he  reached  out  his  hand  and  took  hold 
of  Katie's,  as  if  they  were  boy  and  girl  to 
gether.  "  Many  's  the  time  I  Ve  raced  wi'  ye 
this  way,  Katie,"  he  said  affectionately. 

"  Ay,  when  I  was  a  wee  thing ;  an'  ye  al 
ways  let  go  my  hand  at  last,  and  pretended  I 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.   241 

could  outrin  ye,"  laughed  Katie,  blissful  tears 
filling  her  eyes. 

What  a  happy  day  was  this  !  Had  it  not 
been  an  inspiration  to  bring  Donald  back  to 
the  old  farm-house  ?  Katie  was  sure  it  had. 
She  was  filled  with  sweet  reveries;  and  so 
silent  on  the  way  home  that  her  merry  friends 
joked  her  unmercifully  about  her  long  walk 
inland  with  the  Captain. 

It  was  late  in  the  night,  or  rather  it  was 
early  the  next  morning,  when  the  "  Heather 
Bell"  reached  her  wharf. 

"  I  '11  go  up  with  ye,  Katie,"  said  Donald. 
"  It 's  not  decent  for  ye  to  go  alone." 

And  when  he  bade  her  good-night  he 
looked  half-wistfully  in  her  face,  and  said  : 
"  But  it 's  a  lonely  house  for  ye  to  come  to, 
Katie,  an'  not  a  soul  but  yourself  in  it."  And 
he  held  her  hand  in  his  affectionately,  as  a 
cousin  might. 

Katie's  heart  beat  like  a  hammer  in  her 
bosom  at  these  words,  but  she  answered 
gravely :  "  Yes,  it  was  sorely  lonely  at  first, 
an'  I  wearied  myself  out  to  get  them  to  give 
me  Elspie  to  learn  the  business  wi'  me ;  but 
I  'm  more  used  to  it  now." 
16 


242  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

(i  That  is  what  I  was  thinkin',"  said  Donald, 
"that  if  the  two  o'  ye  were  here  together, 
ye  'd  not  be  so  lonely.  Would  she  not  like 
to  come  ? " 

"Ay,  that  would  she,"  replied  the  uncon 
scious  Katie  ;  "  she  pines  to  be  with  me.  I  'm 
more  her  mother  than  the  mother  herself  ; 
but  they  11  never  consent." 

"  She  's  bonny,"  said  Donald.  "  I  'd  not 
seen  her  since  she  was  little." 

"  She 's  as  good  as  she  is  bonny,"  said 
Katie,  warmly ;  and  that  was  the  last  word 
between  Katie  and  Donald  that  night. 

"As  good  as  she  is  bonny."  It  rang  in 
Donald's  ears  like  a  refrain  of  heavenly  music 
as  he  strode  away.  "As  good  as  she  is 
bonny;"  and  how  good  must  that  be?  She 
could  not  be  as  good  as  she  was  bonny,  for 
she  was  the  bonniest  lass  that  ever  drew 
breath.  Gray  eyes  and  golden  hair  and  pink 
cheeks  and  pink  heather  all  mingled  in  Don 
ald's  dreams  that  night  in  fantastic  and  im 
possible  combinations  ;  and  more  than  once 
he  waked  in  terror,  with  the  sweat  stand 
ing  on  his  forehead  from  some  nightmare 
fancy  of  danger  to  the  "Heather  Bell"  and 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.   243 

to  Elspie,  both  being  inextricably  entangled 
together  in  his  vision. 

The  visions  did  not  fade  with  the  day. 
They  pursued  Donald,  and  haunted  his  down- 
sitting  and  his  uprising.  He  tried  to  shake 
them  off,  drive  them  away ;  for  when  he 
came  to  think  the  thing  over  soberly,  he 
called  himself  an  old  fool  to  be  thus  going 
daft  about  a  child  like  Elspie. 

"  Barely  twenty  at  the  most,  and  me  forty. 
She  'd  not  look  at  an  old  fellow  like  me,  and 
maybe  't  would  be  like  a  sin  if  she  did,"  said 
Donald  to  himself  over  and  over  again.  But 
it  did  no  good.  "  As  good  as  she  is  bonny, 
bonny,  bonny,"  rang  in  his  ears,  and  the  blue 
eyes  and  golden  hair  and  merry  smile  floated 
before  his  eyes.  There  was  no  help  for  it. 
Since  the  world  began  there  have  been  but 
two  roads  out  of  this  sort  of  mystic  maze  in 
which  Donald  now  found  himself  lost,  —  but 
two  roads,  one  bright  with  joy,  one  dark  with 
sorrow.  And  which  road  should  it  be  Don 
ald's  fate  to  travel  must  be  for  the  child 
Elspie  to  say.  After  a  few  days  of  bootless 
striving  with  himself,  during  which  time  he 
had  spent  more  hours  with  Katie  than  he 


244  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

had  for  a  year  before,  —  it  was  such  a  com 
fort  to  him  to  see  in  her  face  the  subtle  like 
ness  to  Elspie,  and  to  hear  her  talk  about 
plans  of  bringing  her  to  Charlottetown  for  a 
visit  if  nothing  more,  —  after  a  few  days  of 
this,  Captain  Donald,  one  Saturday  afternoon, 
sailing  past  Orwell  Head,  suddenly  ran  into 
the  inlet  where  he  had  taken  the  picnic  party, 
and,  mooring  the  "  Heather  Bell "  at  Spruce 
Wharf,  announced  to  his  astonished  mate  that 
he  should  lie  by  there  till  Monday. 

It  was  a  bold  step  of  Captain  Donald's. 
But  he  was  not  a  man  for  half-and-half  ways 
in  anything ;  and  he  had  said  grimly  to  him 
self  that  this  matter  must  be  ended  one  way 
or  the  other,  —  either  he  would  win  the  child 
or  lose  her.  He  would  know  which.  Girls 
had  loved  men  twenty  years  older  than  them 
selves,  and  girls  might  again. 

The  Sunday  passed  off  better  than  his  ut 
most  hopes.  Everybody  except  Elspie  was 
cordially  glad  to  see  him.  Visitors  were  not 
so  common  at  the  Orwell  Head  farm-houses 
that  they  could  fail  of  welcome.  The  Mc- 
Cloud  boys  were  thankful  to  hear  all  that 
Donald  had  to  tell,  and  with  the  old  father 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  24$ 

and  mother  he  had  always  been  a  prime 
favorite.  It  had  been  a  sore  disappointment 
to  them,  as  year  after  year  went  by,  to  see 
that  there  seemed  no  likelihood  of  his  becom 
ing  Katie's  husband.  As  the  day  wore  on, 
even  Elspie  relaxed  a  little  from  her  indiffer 
ent  attention  to  him,  and  began  to  perceive 
that,  spite  of  the  odious  freckles,  he  was,  as 
the  girls  had  said,  a  handsome  man. 

Partly  because  of  this,  and  partly  from  in 
nate  coquetry,  she  said,  when  he  was  taking 
leave,  "  Ye  '11  not  be  comin'  again  for  another 
year,  maybe  ? " 

"  Ye  '11  see,  then  ! "  laughed  Donald,  with 
a  sudden  wise  impulse  to  refrain  from  giving 
the  reply  which  sprang  to  his  lips,  —  "  To 
morrow,  if  ye  'd  ask  me  !  " 

And  from  the  same  wise,  strangely  wise 
impulse  he  curbed  his  desire  to  go  again  the 
next  Sunday  and  the  next.  Not  until  three 
weeks  had  passed  did  he  go  ;  and  then  Elspie 
was  clearly  and  unmistakably  glad  to  see  him. 
This  was  all  Donald  wanted.  "  I  '11  win  her, 
the  bonny  thing  !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  An' 
I  '11  not  be  long,  either." 

And   he  was   right.     A   girl   would   have 


246  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

been  hard  indeed  that  would  not  have  been 
touched  by  the  beaming,  tender  face  which 
Donald  wore,  now  that  hope  lighted  it  up. 
His  masterful  bearing,  too,  was  a  pleasure  to 
the  spirited  Elspie,  who  had  no  liking  for 
milksops,  and  had  sent  off  more  than  one 
lover  because  he  came  crawling  too  humbly 
to  her  feet.  Elspie  had  none  of  the  gentle, 
quiet  blood  which  ran  in  Katie's  veins.  She 
had  even  been  called  Firebrand  in  her  younger, 
childish  days,  so  hot  was  her  temper,  so  hasty 
her  tongue.  But  the  firm  rule  of  the  Scottish 
household  and  the  pressure  of  the  stern 
Scotch  Calvinism  preached  in  their  kirk  had 
brought  her  well  under  her  own  control. 

"  Eh,  but  the  bonny  lass  has  hersel'  well 
in  hand,"  thought  the  admiring  Donald  more 
than  once,  as  he  saw  her  in  some  family  dis 
cussion  or  controversy  keep  silence,  with 
flushing  cheeks,  when  sharp  words  rose  to 
her  tongue. 

All  this  time  Katie  was  plodding  away  at 
her  millinery,  inexpressibly  cheered  by  Don 
ald's  new  friendliness.  He  came  often  to  see 
her,  and  told  her  with  the  greatest  frankness 
of  his  visits  at  the  farm.  He  would  take  her 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  247 

some  day,  he  said  ;  the  trouble  was,  he  could 
never  be  sure  beforehand  when  it  would 
answer  for  him  to  stop  there.  Katie  sunned 
herself  in  this  new  familiar  intercourse,  and 
the  thought  of  Donald  running  up  to  the  old 
farm  of  a  Sunday  as  if  he  were  one  of  the 
brothers  going  home.  In  the  contentment 
of  these  thoughts  she  grew  younger  and  pret- 
tier,  —  began  to  look  as  she  did  at  twenty. 
And  Donald,  gazing  scrutinizingly  in  her  face 
one  day,  seeking,  as  he  was  always  doing,  for 
stray  glimpses  of  resemblance  to  Elspie,  saw 
this  change,  and  impulsively  told  her  of  it. 

"  But  ye  're  growin'  young,  Katie  —  d'  ye 
know  it  ?  —  young  and  bonny,  my  girl." 

And  Katie  listened  to  the  words  with  such 
sweet  joy  she  feared  her  face  would  tell  too 
much,  and  put  up  her  hands  to  hide  it,  crying  : 
"  Ah,  ye  're  tryin'  to  make  me  silly,  you  Don 
ald,  with  such  flatter-in'.  '  We're  gettin'  old, 
Donald,  you  an'  me,"  she  added,  with  a  guilty 
little  undercurrent  of  thought  in  her  mind. 
"  D'  ye  mind  that  I  was  thirty  last  month  ?" 

"Ay,"  replied  Donald,  gloomily,  his  face 
darkening,  —  "  ay ;  I  mind,  by  the  same  token, 
I  'm  forty.  It 's  no  need  ye  have  to  be  callin' 


248  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

yersel'  old.  But  I'm  old,  an'  no  mistake." 
The  thought,  as  Katie  had  put  it,  had  been 
gall  and  wormwood  to  him.  If  Katie  thought 
him  old,  what  must  he  seem  to  Elspie ! 

It  was  early  in  June  that  Elspie  had  had 
the  spinning-bee  to  which  Katie  had  brought 
the  unwelcome  Donald.  The  summer  sped 
past,  but  a  faster  summer  than  any  reckoned 
on  the  calendar  of  months  and  days  was 
speeding  in  Elspie's  heart.  Such  great  love 
as  Donald's  reaches  and  warms  its  object  as 
inevitably  as  the  heat  of  a  fire  warms  those 
near  it.  Early  in  June  the  spinning-bee,  and 
before  the  last  flax  was  pulled,  early  in  Sep 
tember,  Elspie  knew  that  she  was  restless 
till  Donald  came,  glad  when  he  was  by  her 
side,  and  strangely  sorry  when  he  went  away. 
Still,  she  was  not  ready  to  admit  to  herself 
that  it  was  anything  more  than  her  natural 
liking  for  any  pleasant  friend  who  broke  in 
on  the  lonely  monotony  of  the  farm  life. 

The  final  drying  of  the  flax,  which  is  an 
important  crop  on  most  of  the  Prince  Edward 
Island  farms,  is  put  off  until  autumn.  After 
its  first  drying  in  the  fields  where  it  grew,  it 
is  stored  in  bundles  under  cover  till  all  the 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.   249 

other  summer  work  is  done,  and  autumn 
brings  leisure.  Then  the  flax  camp,  as  it  is 
called,  is  built, — a  big  house  of  spruce  boughs  ; 
walls,  flat  roof,  all  of  the  green  spruce  boughs, 
thick  enough  to  keep  out  rain.  This  is  usu 
ally  in  the  heart  of  a  spruce  grove.  Thither 
the  bundles  of  flax  are  carried  and  "stacked  in 
piles.  In  the  centre  of  the  inclosure  a  slow 
fire  is  lighted,  and  above  this  on  a  frame  of 
slats  the  stalks  of  flax  are  laid  for  their  last 
drying.  It  is  a  difficult  and  dangerous  pro 
cess  to  keep  the  fire  hot  enough  and  not  too 
hot,  to  shift  and  turn  and  lift  the  flax  at  the 
right  moment.  Sometimes  only  a  sudden 
flinging  of  moist  earth  upon  the  fire  saves  it 
from  blazing  up  into  the  flax,  and  sometimes 
one  careless  second's  oversight  loses  the 
whole,  —  flax,  spruce-bough  house,  all,  in  a 
light  blaze,  and  gone  in  a  breath. 

The  McClouds'  flax  camp  had  been  built  in 
the  edge  of  the  spruce  grove  where  the  pic 
nickers  had  held  their  dance  and  merry-mak 
ing  on  that  June  day,  memorable  to  Donald 
and  Elspie  and  Katie.  It  was  well  filled  with 
flax,  in  the  drying  of  which  nobody  was  more 
interested  than  Elspie.  She  had  big  schemes 


250  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

for  spinning  and  weaving  in  the  coming  win 
ter.  A  whole  piece  of  linen  she  had  promised 
to  Katie,  and  a  piece  for  herself,  and,  as 
Elspie  thought  it  over,  maybe  a  good  many 
more  pieces  than  one  she  might  require  for 
herself  before  spring.  Who  knew  ? 

It  was  October  now,  and  many  a  Sunday 
evening  had  Elspie  walked  with  Donald  alone 
down  to  Spruce  Wharf,  and  lingered  there 
watching  the  last  curl  of  steam  from  the 
"  Heather  Bell "  as  she  rounded  the  point, 
bearing  Donald  away.  Elspie  could  not 
doubt  why  Donald  came.  Soon  she  would 
wonder  why  he  came  and  went  so  many  times 
silent ;  that  is,  silent  in  words,  eloquent  of 
eye  and  hand,  —  even  the  touch  of  his  hand 
was  like  a  promise. 

No  one  was  defter  and  more  successful  in 
this  handling  of  the  flax  over  the  fire  than 
Elspie.  It  had  sometimes  happened  that  she, 
with  the  help  of  one  brother,  had  dried  the 
whole  crop.  It  was  not  thought  safe  for  one 
person  to  work  at  it  alone  for  fear  of  accident 
with  the  fire.  But  it  fell  out  on  this  October 
afternoon,  a  Saturday,  that  Elspie,  feeling 
sure  of  Donald's  being  on  his  way  to  spend 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  2$l 

the  Sunday  with  her,  had  walked  down  to  the 
wharf  to  meet  him.  Seeing  no  signs  of  the 
boat,  she  went  back  to  the  flax  camp,  lighted 
the  fire,  and  began  to  spread  the  flax  on  the 
slats.  There  was  not  much  more  left  to  be 
dried,  —  "  not  more  than  three  hours'  work  in 
all,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Eh,  but  I  'd  like 
to  have  done  with  it  before  the  Sabbath ! " 
And  she  fell  to  work  with  a  will,  so  briskly 
to  work  that  she  did  not  realize  how  time  was 
flying,  —  did  not,  strangest  of  all,  hear  the  let 
ting  off  of  steam  when  the  "  Heather  Bell " 
moored  at  the  wharf;  and  she  was  still  busily 
turning  and  lifting  and  separating  the  stalks 
of  flax,  bending  low  over  the  frame,  heated, 
hurrying,  her  whole  heart  in  her  work,  when 
Donald  came  striding  up  the  field  from  the 
wharf,  —  striding  at  his  greatest  pace,  for  he 
was  disturbed  at  not  finding  Elspie  at  the 
landing  to  meet  him.  He  turned  his  head 
toward  the  spruce  grove,  thinking  vaguely  of 
the  June  picnic,  and  what  had  come  of  his 
walking  away  from  the  dance  that  morning, 
when  suddenly  a  great  column  of  smoke  and 
fire  rolled  up  from  the  grove,  and  in  the  same 
second  came  piercing  shrieks  in  Elspie's  voice. 


252  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

The  grove  was  only  a  few  rods  away,  but  it 
seemed  to  Donald  an  eternity  before  he 
reached  the  spot,  to  see  not  only  the  spruce 
boughs  and  flax  on  fire,  but  Elspie  tossing  up 
her  arms  like  one  crazed,  her  gown  all  ablaze. 
The  brave,  foolish  girl,  at  the  first  blazing  of 
the  stalks  on  the  slats,  had  darted  into  the 
corner  of  the  house  and  snatched  an  armful 
of  the  piled  flax  there  to  save  it ;  but  as  she 
passed  the  flaming  centre  the  whole  sheaf  she 
carried  had  caught  fire  also,  and  in  a  twink 
ling  of  an  eye  had  blazed  up  around  her  head, 
and  when  she  dropped  it,  had  blazed  up  again 
fiercer  than  ever  around  her  feet. 

With  a  groan  Donald  seized  her.  The 
flames  leaped  on  him,  too,  as  if  to  wrestle  with 
him  ;  his  brown  beard  crackled,  his  hair,  but 
he  fought  through  it  all.  Throwing  Elspie  on 
the  ground,  he  rolled  her  over  and  over,  cry 
ing  aloud,  "  Oh,  my  darlin',  if  I  break  your 
sweet  bones,  it  is  better  than  the  fire  ! "  And 
indeed  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  break  her 
bones,  so  fiercely  he  rolled  her  over  and  over, 
tearing  off  his  woollen  coat  to  smother  the 
fire ;  beating  it  with  his  tartan  cap,  stamping 
it  with  his  knees  and  feet  "  Oh,  my  darlin' ! 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  253 

make  yourself  easy.  I  '11  save  ye  !  I  '11  save 
ye  if  I  die  for  it,"  he  cried. 

And  through  the  smoke  and  the  fire  and 
the  terror  Elspie  answered  back :  "  I  '11  not 
leave  ye,  my  Donald.  We  're  gettin'  it  under." 
And  with  her  own  scorched  hands  she  pulled 
the  coat-flaps  down  over  the  smouldering  bits 
of  flax,  and  tore  off  her  burning  garments. 

Not  a  coward  thread  in  her  whole  body  had 
little  Elspie,  and  in  less  time  than  the  story 
could  ever  be  told,  all  was  over,  and  safely  ; 
and  there  they  sat  on  the  ground,  the  two, 
locked  in  each  other's  arms,  —  Donald's  beard 
gone,  and  much  of  his  hair;  Elspie's  pretty 
golden  hair  also  blackened,  burned.  It  wa*s 
the  first  thing  Donald  saw  after  he  made  sure 
danger  was  past.  Laying  his  hand  on  her 
head,  he  said,  with  a  half-sob,  —  he  was  hys 
terical  now  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
done  :  "  Oh,  your  bonny  hair,  my  darlin' !  It 's 
all  scorched  away." 

"It'll  grow!"  said  Elspie,  looking  up  in 
his  eyes  archly.  Her  head  was  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  she  nestled  closer;  then  she  burst 
into  tears  and  laughter  together,  crying :  "  Oh, 
Donald,  it  was  for  you  I  was  callin'.  Did  ye 


254  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

hear  me  ?  I  said  to  myself  when  the  fire  took 
hold,  '  O  God,  send  Donald  to  save  me ! " 

"  An'  he  sent  me,  my  darlin',"  answered 
Donald.  "Ye  are  my  own  darlin';  say  it, 
Elspie,  say  it ! "  he  continued.  "  Oh,  ye 
bonny  bairn,  but  I  've  loved  ye  like  death 
since  the  first  day  I  set  eyes  on  your  bonny 
face  !  Say  ye  're  my  darlin' !  " 

But  he  knew  it  without  her  saying  a  word ; 
and  the  whispered  "  Yes,  Donald,  I  'm  your 
darlin'  if  you  want  me,"  did  not  make  him 
any  surer. 

There  was  a  great  outcrying  and  trembling 
of  hearts  at  the  farm-house  when  Donald  and 
Blspie  appeared  in  this  sorry  plight  of  torn 
and  burned  clothes,  blackened  faces,  scorched 
and  singed  hair.  But  thankfulness  soon  swept 
away  all  other  emotions,  —  thankfulness  and 
a  great  joy,  too ;  for  Donald's  second  word 
was,  turning  to  the  old  father :  "  An'  it  is  my 
own  that  I  've  saved  ;  she 's  gien  hersel'  to 
me  for  all  time,  an'  we  '11  ask  for  your  blessin' 
on  us  without  any  waitin'  ! "  Tears  filled 
the  mother's  eyes.  She  thought  of  another 
daughter.  A  dire  instinct  smote  her  of  woe 
to  Katie. 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  2$$ 

"Ay,  Donald,"  she  said,  "it's  a  good  day  to 
us  to  see  ye  enter  the  house  as  a  son ;  but  I 
never  thought  o'  — "  She  stopped. 

Donald's  quick  consciousness  imagined  part 
of  what  she  had  on  her  mind.  "  No,"  he  said, 
half  sad  in  the  midst  of  his  joy,  "o'  course  ye 
did  n't ;  an'  I  wonder  at  mysel'.  It 's  like 
winter  weddin'  wi'  spring,  ye '11  be  sayin'. 
But  I  '11  keep  young  for  her  sake.  Ye  '11  see 
she  's  no  old  man  for  a  husband.  There  's 
nothing  in  a'  the  world  I  '11  not  do  for  the 
bairn.  It 's  no  light  love  I  bear  her." 

"  Ye  '11  be  tellin'  Katie  on  the  morrow  ? " 
said  the  unconscious  Elspie. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  replied  the  equally  unconscious 
Donald  ;  "  an  she  '11  be  main  glad  o'  't.  It 's 
a  hundred  times  in  the  summer  that  she  's 
been  sayin'  how  she  longed  to  have  you  in 
the  town  wi'  her.  An'  now  ye  're  comin', 
comin'  soon,  oh,  my  bonny.  I  '11  make  a  good 
home  for  ye  both.  Katie's  the  same's  my 
own,  too,  for  always." 

The  mother  gazed  earnestly  at  Donald. 
Could  it  be  that  he  was  so  unaware  of  Katie's 
heart?  "Donald,"  she  said  suddenly,  "I'll 
go  down  wi'  ye  if  ye  '11  take  me.  I  've  been 


256  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

wantin'  to  go.  There  's  a  many  things  I  've 
to  do  in  the  town." 

It  had  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  she 
might  thus  save  Katie  the  shock  of  hearing 
the  news  first  from  Donald's  lips. 

It  was  well  she  did.  When,  with  stam 
mering  lips  and  she  hardly  knew  in  what 
words,  she  finally  broke  it  to  Katie  that 
Donald  had  asked  Elspie  to  be  his  wife,  and 
that  Elspie  loved  him,  and  they  would  soon 
be  married,  Katie  stared  into  her  face  for  a 
moment  with  wide,  vacant  eyes,  as  if  para 
lyzed  by  some  vision  of  terror.  Then,  turn 
ing  white,  she  gasped  out,  "  Mother  !  "  No 
word  more.  None  was  necessary. 

"  Ay,  my  bairn,  I  know,"  said  the  mother, 
with  a  trembling  voice ;  "  an'  I  came  mysel' 
that  no  other  should  tell  ye." 

A  long  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  an 
occasional  shuddering  sigh  from  Katie ;  not 
a  tear  in  her  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  as  scarlet 
as  they  had  been  white  a  few  moments  before. 
The  look  on  her  face  was  terrifying. 

"  Will  it  kill  ye,  bairn  ?  "  sobbed  the  mother 
at  last.  "  Don't  look  so.  It  must  be  borne, 
my  bairn;  it  must  be  borne." 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  257 

It  was  a  shrill  voice,,  unlike  Katie's,  which 
replied  :  "  Ay,  I  '11  bear  it ;  it  must  be  borne. 
There  's  none  knows  it  but  you,  mother,"  she 
added,  with  a  shade  of  relief  in  the  tone. 

"  An'  never  will  if  ye  're  brave,  bairn," 
answered  the  mother. 

"  It  was  the  day  of  the  picnic,"  cried  Katie ; 
"  was  't  not  ?  I  remember  he  said  she  was 
bonny." 

"  Ay,  't  was  then,"  replied  the  mother,  so 
sorely  torn  between  her  love  for  the  two 
daughters,  between  whom  had  fallen  this  ter 
rible  sword.  "  Ay,  it  was  then.  He  says  she 
has  not  been  out  of  his  mind  by  the  night  or 
by  the  day  since  it." 

Katie  shivered.  '"  And  it  was  I  brought 
him,"  she  said,  with  a  tearless  sob  bitterer 
than  any  loud  weeping.  "  Ye  '11  be  goin' 
back  the  night?"  she  added  drearily. 

"  I  '11  bide  if  ye  want  me,"  said  the  mother. 

"  I  'm  better  alone,  mother,"  said  Katie,  her 
voice  for  the  first  time  faltering.  "  I  '11  bear 
it.  Never  fear  me,  mother ;  but  I  'm  best 
alone  for  a  bit.  Ye  '11  give  my  warm  love  to 
Elspie,  an'  send  her  down  here  to  me  to  stay 
till  she 's  married.  I  '11  help  her  best  if  she  's 
17 


258  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

here.  There  '11  be  much  to  be  done.  I  '11 
do 't,  mother;  never  fear  me." 

"  Are  ye  countin'  too  much  on  yer  strength, 
bairn  ?  "  asked  the  now  weeping  mother.  "I  'd 
rather  see  ye  give  way  like." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Katie,  impatiently.  "  Each 
one  has  his  own  way,  mother ;  let  me  have 
mine.  I  '11  work  for  Donald  and  Elspie  all  I 
can.  Ye  know  she  was  always  like  my  own 
bairn  more  than  a  sister.  The  quicker  she 
comes  the  better  for  me,  mother.  It  '11  be 
all  over  then.  Eh,  but  she  '11  be  a  bonny 
bride  !  "  And  at  these  words  Katie's  tears  at 
last  flowed. 

"  There,  there,  bairn  !  Have  out  the  tears  ; 
they're  healin'  to  grief,"  exclaimed  her  mother, 
folding  her  arms  tight  around  her  and  draw 
ing  her  head  down  on  her  shoulder  as  she  had 
done  in  her  babyhood. 

Katie  was  right.  When  she  had  Elspie  by 
her  side,  and  was  busily  at  work  in  helping 
on  all  the  preparations  for  the  wedding,  the 
worst  was  over.  There  was  a  strange  blend 
ing  of  pang  and  pleasure  in  the  work.  Katie 
wondered  at  herself;  but  it  grew  clearer  and 
clearer  to  her  each  day  that  since  Donald 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  259 

could  not  be  hers  she  was  glad  he  was  El- 
spie's.  "  If  he  'd  married  a  stranger  it  would 
ha'  broke  my  heart  far  worse,  far  worse," 
she  said  many  a  time  to  herself  as  she  sat 
patiently  stitching,  stitching,  on  Elspie's  bridal 
clothes.  "  He  's  my  own  in  a  way,  after  a', 
so  long  's  he  's  my  brother.  There  's  nobody 
can  rob  me  o'  that."  And  the  sweet  light  of 
unselfish  devotion  beamed  more  and  more  in 
her  countenance,  till  even  the  mother  that 
bore  her  was  deceived,  and  said  in  her  heart 
that  Katie  could  not  have  been  so  very  much 
in  love  with  DonaM  after  all. 

There  was  one  incident  which  for  a  few 
moments  sorely  tested  Katie's  self-control. 
The  spray  of  white  heather  blossom  which 
she  had  worn  to  the  June  picnic  she  had  on 
the  next  day  put  back  in  her  box  of  flowers 
for  sale,  hoping  that  she  might  yet  find  a 
customer  for  it.  The  delicate  bells  were  not 
injured  either  in  shape  or  color.  It  was  a 
shame  to  lose  it  for  one  day's  wear,  thought 
the  thrifty  Katie ;  and  most  surely  she  her 
self  would  never  wear  it  again.  She  could 
not  even  see  it  without  a  flush  of  mortifica 
tion  as  she  recalled  Donald's  contempt  for  it. 


260  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

The  privileged  Elspie,  rummaging  among  all 
Katie's  stores,  old  and  new,  spied  this  white 
heather  cluster  one  day,  and  snatching  it  up 
exclaimed :  "  The  very  thing  for  my  weddin' 
bonnet,  Katie !  I  '11  have  it  in.  The  bride  o' 
the  master  o'  the  '  Heather  Bell '  should  be 
wed  with  the  heather  bloom  on  her." 

Katie's  face  flushed.  "  It 's  been  worn, 
Elspie,"  she  said ;  "  I  had  it  in  a  bonnet  o' 
my  own.  Don't  ye  remember  I  wore  it  to 
the  picnic  ?  an'  then  it  didna  suit,  an'  I  put 
it  back  in  the  box.  It 's  not  fit  for  ye.  I  've 
a  bunch  o'  lilies  o'  the  valley,  better." 

"  No  ;  I  '11  have  this,"  pursued  Elspie. 
"  It 's  as  white 's  the  driven  snow,  an'  not 
hurt  at  all.  I  'm  sure  Donald  '11  like  it  better 
than  all  the  other  flowers  i'  the  town." 

"  Indeed,  then,  he  won't,"  said  Katie, 
sharply ;  on  which  Elspie  turned  upon  her 
with  a  flashing  eye,  and  said, — 

"  An'  which  '11  be  knowin'  best,  do  ye  think  ? 
What  is  it  ye  mean  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Katie,  meekly  ;  "  only  he 
said,  that  day  I  'd  the  bonnet  on,  it  was  no 
more  than  sticks,  an'  not  like  the  true  heather 
at  all." 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  261 

"  All  he  knows,  then  !  Ye  '11  see  he  '11  not 
say  it  looks  like  sticks  when  it 's  on  the  bon 
net  I  'm  goin'  to  church  in,"  retorted  Elspie, 
dancing  to  the  looking-glass,  and  holding  the 
white  heather  bells  high  up  against  her  golden 
curls.  "  It 's  the  only  flower  in  all  yer  boxes 
I  want,  Katie,  and  ye  '11  not  grudge  it  to  me, 
will  ye,  dear  ?  "  And  the  sparkling  Elspie 
threw  herself  on  the  floor  by  Katie,  and  flung 
her  arms  across  her  knees,  looking  up  into 
her  face  with  a  wilful,  loving  smile. 

"  No  wonder  Donald  loves  her  so,  —  the 
bonny  thing  !  "  thought  Katie.  "  God  knows 
I  'd  grudge  ye  nothing  on  earth,  Elspie,"  she 
said,  in  a  voice  so  earnest  that  Elspie  looked 
wonderingly  at  her. 

"  Is  it  a  very  dear  flower,  sister  ?  "  she  said 
penitently.  "  Does  it  cost  too  much  money 
for  Elspie  ? " 

"  No,  bairn,  it  's  not  too  dear,"  said  Katie, 
herself  again.  "  The  lilies  were  dearer.  But 
ye '11  have  the  heather  an'  welcome,  if  ye 
will ;  an'  I  doubt  not  it  '11  look  all  right  in 
Donald's  eyes  when  he  sees  it  this  time." 

It  was  indeed  a  good  home  that  Donald 
made  for  his  wife  and  her  sister.  He  was 


262  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

better  to  do  in  worldly  goods  than  they  had 
supposed.  His  long  years  of  seclusion  from 
society  had  been  years  of  thrift  and  pros 
perity.  No  more  milliner-work  for  Katie. 
Donald  would  not  hear  of  it.  So  she  was 
driven  to  busy  herself  with  the  house,  keep 
ing  from  Elspie's  willing  and  eager  hands  all 
the  harder  tasks,  and  laying  up  stores  of  fine 
spun  linen  and  wool  for  future  use  in  the 
family.  It  was  a  marvel  how  content  Katie 
found  herself  as  the  winter  flew  by.  The 
wedding  had  taken  place  at  Christmas,  and 
the  two  sisters  and  Donald  had  gone  together 
from  the  church  to  Donald's  new  house, 
where,  in  a  day  or  two,  everything  had  set 
tled  into  peaceful  grooves  of  simple,  industri 
ous  habit,  as  if  they  had  been  there  all  their 
lives. 

Donald's  happiness  was  of  the  deep  and 
silent  kind.  Elspie  did  not  realize  the  extent 
of  it.  A  freer-spoken,  more  demonstrative 
lover  would  have  found  heartier  response  and 
more  appreciation  from  her.  But  she  was  a 
loyal,  loving,  contented  little  wife,  and  there 
could  not  have  been  found  in  all  Charlotte- 
town  a  happier  household,  to  the  eye,  than 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  263 

was  Donald's  for  the  first  three  months  after 
his  marriage. 

Then  a  cloud  settled  on  it.  For  some  in 
explicable  reason  the  blooming  Elspie,  who 
had  never  had  a  day's  illness  in  her  life, 
drooped  in  the  first  approach  of  the  burden  of 
motherhood.  A  strange  presentiment  also 
seized  her.  After  the  first  brief  gladness 
at  the  thought  of  holding  a  child  of  her 
own  in  her  arms,  she  became  overwhelmed 
with  a  melancholy  certainty  of  her  own 
death. 

"I'll  never  live  to  see  it,  Katie,"  she  said 
again  and  again.  "It'll  be  your  bairn,  an' 
not  mine.  Ye  '11  never  give  it  up,  Katie  ?  - 
promise  me.  Ye '11  take  care  of  it  all  your 
life  ?  —  promise."  And  Katie,  terrified  by  her 
earnestness,  promised  everything  she  asked, 
all  the  while  striving  to  reassure  her  that  her 
fears  were  needless. 

No  medicines  did  Elspie  good  ;  mind  and 
body  alike  reacted  on  each  other ;  she  failed 
hour  by  hour  till  the  last ;  and  when  her  time 
of  trial  came,  the  sad  presentiment  fulfilled 
itself,  and  she  died  in  giving  birth  to  her 
babe. 


264  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

When  Katie  brought  the  child  to  the 
stunned  and  stricken  Donald,  saying,  "  Will 
ye  not  look  at  him,  Donald  ?  it  is  as  fine  a 
man-child 's  was  ever  seen,"  he  pushed  her 
away,  saying  in  a  hoarse  whisper, — 

"  Never  let  me  see  its  face.  She  said  it 
was  to  be  your  bairn  and  not  hers.  Take  it 
and  go.  I  '11  never  look  on  it." 

Donald  was  out  of  his  reason  when  he  spoke 
these  words,  and  for  long  after.  They  bore 
with  him  tenderly  and  patiently,  and  did  as 
they  could  for  the  best ;  Katie,  the  wan  and 
grief-stricken  Katie,  being  the  chief  adviser 
and  planner  of  all. 

Elspie's  body  was  carried  home  and  buried 
near  the  spruce  grove,  in  a  little  copse  of 
young  spruces  which  Donald  pointed  out. 
This  was  the  only  wish  he  expressed  about 
anything.  Katie  took  the  baby  with  her  to 
the  old  homestead.  She  dared  not  try  to 
rear  it  without  her  mother's  help. 

It  was  many  months  before  Donald  came 
to  the  farm.  This  seemed  strange  to  all  ex 
cept  Katie.  To  her  it  seemed  the  most  nat 
ural  thing,  and  she  grew  impatient  with  all 
who  thought  otherwise. 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  26$ 

"  I  'd  feel  that  way  mysel',"  she  repeated 
again  and  again.  "  He  '11  come  when  he  can, 
but  it  '11  be  long  first.  Ye  none  of  ye  know 
what  a  love  it  was  he  'd  in  his  heart  for 
Elspie." 

When  at  last  Donald  came,  the  child,  the 
little  Donald,  was  j-ust  able  to  creep,  —  a 
chubby,  blue-eyed,  golden-haired  little  crea 
ture,  already  bearing  the  stamp  and  likeness 
of  his  mother's  beauty. 

At  the  first  sight  of  his  face  Donald  stag 
gered,  buried  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  turned 
away.  Then,  looking  again,  he  stretched  out 
his  arms,  took 'the  baby  in  them,  and  kissed 
him  convulsively  over  and  over.  Katie  stood 
by,  looking  on,  silently  weeping.  "  He 's  like 
her,"  she  said. 

"  Ay,"  said  Donald. 

The  -healing  had  begun.  "  A  little  child 
shall  lead  them,"  is  of  all  the  Bible  prophecies 
the  one  oftenest  fulfilled.  It  soon  grew  to  be 
Donald's  chiefest  pleasure  to  be  with  his  boy, 
and  he  found  more,  and  more  irksome  the 
bonds  of  business  which  permitted  him  so  few 
intervals  of  leisure  to  visit  the  farm.  At  last 
one  day  he  said  to  Katie,  — 


266  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

"  Katie,  could  n't  ye  make  your  mind  up  to 
come  up  to  Charlottetown  ?  I  'd  get  ye  a 
good  house,  an'  ye  could  have  who  ye  'd  like 
to  live  wi'  ye.  I  'm  like  one  hungry  all  the 
time  I  'm  out  o'  reach  o'  the  little  lad." 

Katie's  eyes  fell.  She  did  not  know  what 
to  reply. 

"  I  do  not  know,  Donald,"  she  faltered. 
"  It 's  hard  for  you  having  him  away,  but  this 
is  my  home  now,  Donald.  I've  a  dread  o' 
leavin'  it.  And  there  is  nobody  I  know  who 
could  come  to  live  with  me." 

A  strange  thought  shot  through  Donald's 
brain.  "  Katie,"  he  said,  then  paused:  Some 
thing  in  the  tone  startled  Katie.  She  lifted 
her  eyes  ;  read  in  his  the  thought  which  had 
made  the  tone  so  significant  to  her  ear. 

Unconsciously  she  cried  out  at  the  sight, 
"  Oh,  Donald  !  " 

"  Ay,  Katie,"  he  said  slowly,  with  a  grave 
tenderness,  "  why  might  not  I  come  and  live 
wi'  ye  ?  Are  ye  not  the  mother  o'  my  child  ? 
Did  she  not  give  him  to  ye  with  her  own  lips  ? 
An'  how  could  ye  have  him  without  me  ?  I 
think  she  must  ha'  meant  it  so.  Let  me 
come,  Katie." 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  HEATHER  BELL.  267 

It  was  an  unimpassioned  wooing  ;  but  any 
other  would  have  repelled  Katie's  sense  of 
loyalty  and  truth. 

"  Have  ye  love  for  me,  Donald  ? "  she  said 
searchingly. 

"  All  the  love  left  in  me  is  for  the  little  lad 
and  for  you,  Katie,"  answered  Donald.  "I'll 
not  deceive  you,  Katie.  It 's  but  a  broken 
man  I  am  ;  but  I  Ve  always  loved  ye,  Katie. 
I  '11  be  a  good  man  t'  ye,  lass.  Come  and  be 
the  little  lad's  mother,  and  let  me  live  wi'  my 
own  once  more.  Will  ye  come  ? "  As  he 
said  these  words,  he  stretched  out  his  arms 
toward  Katie  ;  and  she,  trembling,  afraid  to  be 
glad,  shadowed  by  the  sad  past,  yet  trusting 
in  the  future,  crept  into  them,  and  was  folded 
close  to  the  heart  she  had  so  faithfully  loved 
all  her  life. 

"  I  promised  Elspie,"  she  whispered,  "  that 
I  'd  never,  never  give  him  to  another." 

"Ay,"  said  Donald,  as  he  kissed  her. 
"  He's  your  bairn,  my  Katie.  Ye '11  be  con 
tent  wi'  me,  Katie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Donald,  if  I  make  you  content,"  she 
replied  ;  and  a  look  of  heavenly  peace  spread 
over  her  face. 


268  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

The  next  morning  Katie  went  alone  to 
Elspie's  grave.  It  seemed  to  her  that  only 
there  could  she  venture  to  look  her  new  fu 
ture  in  the  face.  As  she  knelt  by  the  low 
mound,  her  tears  falling  fast,  she  murmured, — 

"  Eh,  my  bonny  Elspie,  ye  'd  the  best  o'  his 
love.  But  it's  me  that'll  be  doin'  for  him 
till  I  die,  an'  that's  better  than  a'  the  love." 


DANDY  STEVE.  269 


DANDY   STEVE. 

EVERYTHING  in  this  world  is  relative, 
and  nothing  more  so  than  the  signifi 
cance  of  the  same  word  in  different  localities. 
If  Dandy  Steve  had  walked  Broadway  in  the 
same  clothes  which  he  habitually  wore  in  the 
Adirondack  wilderness,  not  only  would  no 
body  have  called  him  a  dandy,  but  every  one 
would  have  smiled  sarcastically  at  the  sug 
gestion  of  that  epithet's  being  applied  to 
him.  Nevertheless,  "Dandy  Steve"  was  the 
name  by  which  he  was  familiarly  known  all 
through  the  Saranac  region  ;  and  judging  by 
the  wilderness  standard,  the  adjective  was  not 
undeserved.  No  such  flannel  shirts,  no  such 
jaunty  felt  hats,  no  such  neckties,  had  ever 
been  worn  by  Adirondack  guides  as  Dandy 
Steve  habitually  wore.  And  as  for  his  buck 
skin  trousers,  they  would  not  have  disgraced 


2/0  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

a  Sioux  chief,  —  always  of  the  softest  and  yel 
lowest  skins,  always  daintily  made,  the  seams 
set  full  of  leather  fringes,  and  sometimes 
marked  by  lines  of  delicate  embroidery  in 
white  quills.  There  were  those  who  said 
that  Dandy  Steve  had  an  Indian  wife  some 
where  on  the  Upper  Saranac,  but  nobody 
knew ;  and  it  would  have  been  a  bold  man 
who  asked  an  intrusive  question  of  Dandy 
Steve,  or  ventured  on  any  impertinent  jesting 
about  his  private  affairs.  Certain  it  was  that 
none  but  Indian  hands  embroidered  the  fine 
buckskins  he  wore;  but,  then,  there  were 
such  buckskins  for  sale,  —  perhaps  he  bought 
them.  A  man  who  would  spend  the  money 
he  did  for  neckties  and  fine  flannel  shirts 
would  not  stop  at  any  extravagance  in  the 
price  of  trousers.  The  buckskins,  however, 
were  not  the  only  evidence  in  this  case. 
There  was  a  well-authenticated  tale  of  a 
brilliant  red  shawl  —  a  woman's  shawl  —  and 
a  pair  of  silver  bangles  once  seen  in  Dandy 
Steve's  cabin.  A  man  had  gone  in  upon  him 
suddenly  one  evening  without  the  formality 
of  knocking.  Such  foolish  conventionalities 
were  not  in  vogue  on  the  Saranac ;  this  was 


DANDY  STEVE.  271 

before  Steve  took  to  guiding.  It  was  in  the 
first  year  after  he  appeared  in  that  region, 
while  he  was  living  like  a  hermit  alone,  or 
supposed  to  be  alone,  in  a  tiny  log  cabin  on 
an  island  not  much  bigger  than  his  cabin. 

This  man  — old  Ben,  the  oldest  guide  there 
—  having  been  hindered  at  some  of  the  port 
ages,  and  finding  himself  too  late  to  reach  his 
destination  that  night,  seeing  the  glimmer  of 
light  from  Steve's  cabin,  had  rowed  to  the 
island,  landed,  and,  with  the  thoughtless  free 
dom  of  the  country,  walked  in  at  the  half- 
open  door. 

He  was  fond  of  telling  the  story  of  his  re 
ception  ;  and  as  he  told  it,  it  had  a  suspicious 
sound,  and  no  mistake.  Steve  was  sitting  in 
a  big  arm-chair  before  his  table  ;  over  the 
arm  of  the  chair  was  flung  the  red  shawl. 
On  the  table  lay  an  open  book  and  the  silver 
bangles  in  it,  as  if  some  one  had  just  thrown 
them  off.  At  sound  of  entering  footsteps 
Steve  sprang  up,  with  an  angry  oath,  and 
hastily  closing  the  book  threw  it  and  the 
bangles  into  the  chair  from  which  he  had 
risen,  then  crowded  the  shawl  down  upon 
them  into  as  small  a  compass  as  possible. 


2/2  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

"  His  eyes  blazed  like  lightnin',  or  sharper," 
said  old  Ben,  "  an'  I  declare  t'  ye  I  was 
skeered.  Fur  a  minut  I  thought  he  was  a 
loonatic,  sure  's  death.  But  in  a  minut  more 
he  was  all  right,  an'  there  could  n't  nobody 
treat  a  feller  handsomer  than  he  did  me  that 
night  an'  the  next  mornin' ;  but  I  took  notice 
that  the  fust  thing  he  done  was  to  heave  a 
big  blanket  kind  o'  careless  like  into  the 
chair,  an'  cover  the  things  clean  up ;  an'  then 
in  a  little  while  he  says,  a-sweepin'  the  whole 
bundle  up  in  his  arms,  '  I  '11  just  clear  up  this 
little  mess,  an'  give  ye  a  comfortable  chair  to 
sit  in  ; '  an'  he  carried  it  all  —  blanket,  book, 
bracelets,  shawl,  an'  all  —  into  the  next  room, 
an'  throwed  'em  on  the  floor  in  a  pile  in  one 
corner.  There  wa'n't  but  them  two  rooms  to 
the  cabin,  so  that  wa'n't  any  place  for  her  to 
be  hid,  if  so  be  's  there  was  any  woman  'round; 
an'  he  said  he  was  livin'  alone,  an'  had  been 
ever  since  he  come.  An'  it  was  nigh  a  year 
then  since  he  come,  so  I  never  know  'd  what 
to  make  on  't,  an'  I  don't  suppose  there 's 
anybody  doos  know  any  more  'n  I  do  ;  but  if 
them  wa'n't  women's  gear  he  had  out  there 
that  night  I  hain't  never  seen  any  women's 


DANDY  STEVE.  273 

gear,  that 's  all !  Whose'omeever  they  was,  I 
hain't  no  idea,  nor  how  they  got  there  ;  but 
they  was  women's  gear.  Dandy 's  Steve  is 
he  could  n't  ha'  had  any  use  for  sech  a  shawl 's 
that,  let  alone  sayin'  what  he  'd  wanted  o' 
bracelets  on  his  arms  ! " 

"  That 's  so,"  was  the  universal  ejaculation 
of  Ben's,  audience  when  he  reached  this 
point  in  his  narrative,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  little  more  to  be  said  on  either  side. 
This  was  all  there  was  of  the  story.  It  must 
stand  in  each  man's  mind  for  what  it  was 
worth,  according  to  his  individual  bias  of  in 
terpretation.  But  it  had  become  an  old  story 
long  before  the  time  at  which  our  later  narra 
tive  of  Dandy  Steve's  history  began  ;  so  old, 
in  fact,  that  it  had  not  been  mentioned  for 
years,  until  the  events  now  about  to  be  chron 
icled  revived  it  in  the  minds  of  Steve's  asso 
ciates  and  fellow-guides. 

Before  the  end  of  Steve's  first  year  in  his 
wilderness  retreat  he  had  become  as  conver 
sant  with  every  nook  and  corner  of  its  laby- 
rinthian  recesses  as  the  oldest  guides  in  the 
region.  Not  a  portage,  not  a  short  cut  un 
familiar  to  him  ;  not  a  narrow  winding  brook 
18 


274  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

wide  enough  for  a  canoe  to  float  in  that  he 
did  not  know.  He  had  spent  all  his  days 
and  many  of  his  nights  in  these  solitary  wan 
derings.  Visitors  to  the  region  grew  wonted 
to  the  sight  of  the  comely  figure  in  the  slight 
birch  canoe,  shooting  suddenly  athwart  their 
track,  or  found  lying  idly  in  some  dark  and 
shaded  stream-bed.  On  the  approach  of 
strangers  he  would  instantly  away,  lifting  his 
hat  courteously  if  there  were  ladies  in  the 
boats  he  passed,  otherwise  taking  no  more 
note  of  the  presence  of  human  beings  than 
of  that  of  the  deer,  or  the  wild  fowl  on  the 
water.  He  was  not  a  handsome  man,  but 
there  was  a  something  in  his  face  at  which 
all  looked  twice,  —  men  as  well  as  women. 
It  was  an  unfathomable  look,  —  partly  of  pain, 
partly  of  antagonism.  His  eyes  habitually 
sought  the  sky,  yet  they  did  not  seem  to  per 
ceive  what  they  gazed  upon  ;  it  was  as  if  they 
would  pierce  beyond  it. 

"What  a  strange  face!"  was  a  common 
ejaculation  on  the  part  of  those  thus  catching 
glimpses  of  his  upturned  countenance.  More 
than  once  efforts  were  made  by  hunters  who 
encountered  him  to  form  his  acquaintance ; 


DANDY  STEVE.  2?$ 

but  they  were  always  courteously  repelled. 
Finally  he  came  to  be  spoken  of  as  the 
"  hermit ; "  and  it  was  with  astonishment,  al 
most  incredulity,  that,  in  the  spring  of  his 
third  year  in  the  Adirondacks,  he  was  found 
at  "  Paul  Smith's "  offering  his  services  as 
guide  to  a  party  of  gentlemen  who,  their 
guide  having  fallen  suddenly  ill,  were  in  sore 
straits  for  some  one  to  take  them  down  again 
through  the  lakes. 

Whether  it  was  that  he  had  grown  sud 
denly  weary  of  his  isolation  and  solitude,  or 
whether  need  had  driven  him  to  this  means 
of  earning  money,  no  one  knew,  and  he  did 
not  say.  But  once  having  entered  on  the 
life  of  a  guide,  he  threw  himself  into  it  as 
heartily  as  if  it  had  been  his  life-long  avoca 
tion,  and  speedily  became  one  of  the  best 
guides  in  the  region.  It  was  observed,  how 
ever,  that  whenever  he  could  do  so  he  avoided 
taking  parties  in  which  there  were  ladies. 
Sometimes  for  a  whole  season  it  would  hap 
pen  that  he  had  not  once  been  seen  in  charge 
of  such  a  party.  Sometimes,  when  it  was  dif 
ficult,  in  fact  impossible,  for  him  to  assign 
any  reason  for  refusing  to  go  with  parties 


276  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

containing  members  of  the  obnoxious  sex,  he 
would  at  the  last  moment  privately  entreat 
some  other  guide  to  take  his  place,  and,  vol 
untarily  relinquishing  all  the  profits  of  the 
engagement,  disappear  and  be  lost  for  several 
days.  During  these  absences  it  was  often 
said,  "  Steve  's  gone  to  see  his  wife,"  or, 
"  Off  with  that  Indian  wife  o'  his  up  North  ; " 
and  these  vague,  idle,  gossiping  conjectures 
slowly  crystallized  into  a  positive  rumor  which 
no  one  could  either  trace  or  gainsay. 

And  so  the  years  went  on,  —  one,  two, 
three,  four,  —  and  Dandy  Steve  had  become 
one  of  the  most  popular  and  best-known 
guides  in  the  Adirondack  country.  His  seem 
ing  effeminacy  of  attire  had  been  long  proved 
to  mark  no  effeminacy  of  nature,  no  lack  of 
strength.  There  was  not  a  better  shot,  a 
stronger  rower,  on  the  list  of  summer  guides ; 
nor  a  better  cook  and  provider.  Every 
party  which  went  out  under  his  care  returned 
with  warm  praise  for  Steve,  with  a  friendly 
feeling  also,  which  would  in  many  instances 
have  warmed  into  familiar  acquaintance  if 
Steve  would  have  permitted  it.  But  with  all 
his  cheerfulness  and  obliging  good-will  he 


DANDY  STEVE.  2/7 

never  lost  a  certain  quantity  of  reserve.  Even 
the  men  whose  servant  he  was  for  the  time 
being  were  insensibly  constrained  to  respect 
this,  and  to  keep  the  distance  he,  not  they, 
determined.  There  remained  always  some 
thing  they  could  not,  as  the  phrase  was, 
"make  out"  about  him.  His  aversion  to 
women  was  well  known  ;  so  much  so  that  it 
had  come  to  be  a  tacitly  understood  thing 
that  parties  of  which  women  were  members 
need  not  waste  their  time  trying  to  induce 
Dandy  Steve  to  take  them  in  charge. 

But  fate  had  not  lost  sight  of  Steve  yet. 
He  had  had  his  period  of  solitary  independ 
ence,  of  apparent  absolute  control  of  his  own 
destinies.  His  seven  years  were  up.  If  he 
had  supposed  that  he  was  serving  them,  like 
Jacob  of  old,  for  that  best-beloved  mistress, 
Freedom,  he  was  mistaken.  The  seven  years 
were  up.  How  little  he  dreamed  what  the 
eighth  would  bring  him ! 

It  was  midsummer,  and  one  of  Steve's 
best  patrons,  Richard  Cravath,  of  Philadel 
phia,  had  not  yet  appeared.  For  three  sum 
mers  Mr.  Cravath  and  two  or  three  of  his 
friends  had  spent  a  month  in  the  Adiron- 


278  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

dacks  hunting,  fishing,  camping  under  Steve's 
guidance.  They  were  all  rich  men,  and  gen 
erous,  and,  what  was  to  Steve  of  far  more 
worth  than  the  liberal  pay,  considerate  of 
his  feelings,  tolerant  of  his  reticence ;  not  a 
man  of  them  but  respected  their  queer,  silent 
guide's  individuality  as  much  as  if  he  had 
been  a  man  of  their  own  sphere  of  life.  Steve 
had  learned,  by  some  unpleasant  experience, 
that  this  delicate  consideration  did  not  always 
obtain  between  employers  and  employed.  It 
takes  an  organization  finer  than  the  ordinary 
to  perceive,  and  live  up  to  the  perception,  that 
the  fact  that  you  have  hired  a  man  for  a  cer 
tain  sum  of  money  per  month  to  cook  your 
food  or  drive  your  horses  gives  you  no  right 
to  ask  him  in  regard  to  his  private,  personal 
affairs  prying  questions  which  you  would 
not  dare  to  put  to  common  acquaintances  in 
society. 

As  week  after  week  went  by  and  no  news 
came  from  Mr.  Cravath,  Steve  found  himself 
really  saddened  at  the  thought  of  not  seeing 
him.  He  had  not  realized  how  large  a  part 
of  his  summer's  pleasure,  as  well  as  profit, 
came  from  the  month's  sport  with  this 


DANDY  STEVE.  279 

Philadelphia  party.  Wistfully  he  scrutinized 
the  lists  of  arrivals  at  the  different  houses 
day  after  day,  for  the  familiar  names  ;  but 
they  were  not  to  be  found.  At  last,  after 
he  had  given  over  looking  for  them,  he  was 
electrified,  one  evening  in  September,  by  hav 
ing  his  name  called  from  the  piazza  of  one  of 
the  hotels,  —  "  Steve,  is  that  you  ?  You  're 
just  the  man  I  want ;  I  was  afraid  we  were 
too  late  to  get  you  !  " 

It  was  Mr.  Cravath,  and  with  him  the  two 
friends  whom  Steve  had  liked  best  of  all  who 
had  been  in  Mr.  Cravath's  parties.  It  was 
the  joy  of  the  sudden  surprise  which  pre 
vented  Steve's  giving  his  customary  close 
attention  to  Mr.  Cravath's  somewhat  vague 
description  of  the  party  he  had  brought  this 
time. 

"You  must  arrange  for  eight,  Steve,"  he 
said.  "There  may  not  be  quite  so  many. 
One  or  two  of  the  fellows  I  hoped  for  have 
not  arrived,  and  it  is  too  late  to  wait  long 
for  any  one.  If  they  are  not  here  by  day 
after  to-morrow  we  will  start.  —  And  oh, 
Steve,"  he  continued,  with  an  affected  care 
less  ease,  but  all  the  while  eying  Steve's 


280  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

face  anxiously,  "  I  forgot  to  mention  that  I 
have  brought  my  wife  along  this  time.  She 
positively  refused  to  let  me  off.  She  said  she 
was  tired  of  hearing  so  much  about  the  Adi- 
rondacks  !  She  was  coming  this  time  to  see 
for  herself.  You  need  n't  have  the  least  fear 
about  having  her  along !  She 's  as  good  a 
traveller  as  I  am,  every  bit ;  I  've  had  her  in 
training  at  it  for  thirty  years,  and  I  tell  her, 
old  as  we  are,  we  are  better  campers  than 
most  of  the  young  people." 

" That's  so,  Mr.  Cravath,"  replied  Steve, 
his  countenance  clouded  and  his  voice  less 
joyous,  "  I  '11  answer  for  it  with  you  ;  but  do 
you  think,  sir,  any  lady  could  go  where  we 
went  last  year  ? " 

In  his  heart  Steve  was  saying  to  himself : 
"  The  idea  of  bringing  an  old  woman  out 
here  !  I  would  n't  do  it  for  anybody  in  the 
world  but  Mr.  Cravath." 

"  My  wife  can  go  anywhere  and  do  any 
thing  that  I  can,  Steve,"  said  Mr.  Cravath. 
"  You  need  not  begin  to  look  blue,  Steve ; 
and  if  you  back  out,  or  serve  us  any  of  your 
woman-hating  tricks,  such  as  I  Ve  heard  of, 
I  '11  never  speak  to  you  again,  —  never." 


DANDY  STEVE.  281 

"  I  would  n't  serve  you  any  trick,  Mr.  Cra- 
vath,  you  know  that,"  replied  Steve,  proudly ; 
"  and  I  have  n't  the  least  idea  of  backing 
out.  But  I  am  afraid  Mrs.  Cravath  will  be 
disappointed,"  he  added,  as  he  went  down  the 
steps,  and  luckily  did  not  turn  his  head  to 
see  Mr.  Cravath' s  face  covered  with  the 
laughter  he  had  been  restraining  during  the 
last  few  moments. 

"  Caught  him,  by  Jove ! "  he  said,  turning 
to  his  companion,  a  tall  dark-faced  man,  — 
"caught  him,  by  Jove,  Randall!  He  never 
once  thought  to  ask  of  what  sex  the  other 
members  of  the  party  might  be.  He  took 
it  for  granted  my  wife  was  to  be  the  only 
woman." 

"  Do  you  think  that  was  quite  fair,  Cra 
vath  ? "  replied  Mr.  Randall.  "  He  would 
never  have  taken  us  in  the  world  if  he  had 
known  there  were  three  women  in  the 
party." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  laughed  Mr.  Cravath.  "  Good 
enough  for  him  for  having  such  a  crotchet 
in  his  head.  We'll  take  it  out  of  him  this 
trip." 

"  Or  set  it  stronger  than  ever,"  said  Mr. 


282  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

Randall.  "  My  mind  misgives  me.  We  shall 
wish  we  had  not  done  it.  He  may  turn  sulky 
and  unmanageable  on  our  hands  when  he 
finds  himself  trapped." 

"  I  '11  risk  it,"  said  Mr.  Cravath,  confidently. 
"If  I  can't  bring  him  around,  Helen  Wingate 
will.  I  never  saw  the  man,  woman,  child,  or 
dumb  beast  yet  that  could  resist  her." 

Mr.  Randall  sighed.  "  Poor  child ! "  he  said. 
"  Is  n't  her  gayety  something  wonderful  ?  One 
would  not  think  to  look  at  her  that  she  had 
ever  had  an  hour's  sorrow ;  but  my  wife  tells 
me  that  she  cannot  speak  of  that  husband 
of  hers  yet  without  the  most  passionate 
weeping  ! " 

"  I  know  it !  It 's  a  shame,"  replied  Mr. 
Cravath,  '"  to  see  a  glorious  woman  like  that 
throwing  her  life  away  on  a  memory.  I  did 
have  a  hope  at  one  time  that  she  would  marry 
again  ;  but  I  've  given  it  up.  If  she  would 
have  married  any  one,  it  would  have  been 
George  Walton  last  winter.  No  one  has  ever 
come  so  near  her  as  he  did  ;  but  she  sent  him 
off  at  last,  like  all  the  rest." 

The  "two  fellows"  on  whom  Mr.  Cravath 
was  counting  to  make  up  his  party  of  eight 


DANDY  STEVE.  283 

did  not  appear ;  and  on  the  second  morning 
after  the  above  conversations  Steve  received 
orders  to  have  his  boats  in  readiness  at  ten 
o'clock  to  start  with  the  Cravath  party,  only 
six  in  number. 

Old  Ben  was  on  the  wharf  as  Steve  was 
making  his  final  arrangements. 

"  Wall,  Steve,"  he  said,  shifting  his  quid  of 
tobacco  in  a  leisurely  manner  from  one  side 
of  his  mouth  to  the  other,  "you've  got  a 
soft  thing  again.  You're  a  damned  lucky 
fellow,  Steve ;  dunno  whether  you  know  it 
or  not." 

"  No,  I  don't  know  it,"  replied  Steve,  curtly  ; 
"and  what's  more,  I  don't  believe  in  luck." 

"  Don't  yer  ? "  said  Ben,  reflectively.  "  Wall, 
I  do  ;  an'  Lord  knows  't  ain't  because  I  've  seen 
so  much  of  it.  Say,  Steve,"  he  added,  "  how  'd 
ye  come  to  take  on  such  a  lot  o'  women  folks, 
this  trip  ? " 

"  Lot  o'  women  folks  !  what  d'  ye  mean  ?  " 
shouted  Steve.  "  There 's  no  womenkind  go 
ing  except  one,  —  Mr.  Cravath's  wife  ;  and  I 
wish  to  thunder  he  'd  left  her  behind." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ? "  said  Ben,  half  innocently, 
half  mischievously,  —  he  was  not  quite  sure 


284  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

of  his  ground  ;  "  be  the  rest  on  'em  goin'  to 
stay  here  ?  There 's  three  women  in  the 
party.  Mr.  Randall  he  's  got  his  wife,  and 
there 's  a  widder  along,  too  ;  mighty  fine- 
lookin'  she  is  ;  are  n't  nothin'  old  about  her,  I 
can  tell  yer  ! " 

A  flash  shot  from  Steve's  eyes.  A  half- 
smothered  ejaculation  came  from  his  lips  as 
he  turned  fiercely  towards  Ben. 

"  There  they  be,  now,  all  a-comin'  down 
the  steps,"  continued  Ben,  chuckling.  "  I 
reckon  ye  got  took  in  for  onst ;  but  it 's  too 
late  now." 

"  Yes,"  thought  Steve,  angrily,  as  he  looked 
at  the  smiling  party  coming  towards  the  land 
ing, —  three  men  and  three  women. 

"  It 's  too  late  now.  If  it  had  been  a  half- 
hour  sooner  't  would  have  been  early  enough. 
But  it 's  the  last  time  I  'm  caught  in  any  such 
way.  What  a  blamed  fool  I  was  not  to  ask 
who  they  were !  Never  thought  of  the  Cra- 
vath  set  lumbering  themselves  up  with  wo 
men  !  "  And  a  very  unpromising  sternness 
settled  down  on  Steve's  expressive  features 
as  he  stooped  down  to  readjust  some  of  the 
smaller  packages  in  the  boat. 


DANDY  STEVE.  285 

Meantime  the  members  of  the  approaching 
party  were  not  wholly  at  ease  in  their  minds. 
Mr.  Cravath  had  confessed  his  suppression  of 
the  truth,  and  Mr.  Randall's  evident  misgiv 
ing  as  to  the  success  of  the  experiment  had 
proved  contagious.  "  If  he's  as  queer  as  you 
say,"  murmured  Mrs.  Cravath,  "  he  can  make 
it  awfully  disagreeable  for  us.  I  am  almost 
afraid  to  go." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  cried  Helen  Wingate,  mer 
rily.  "  I  '11  take  that  out  of  him  before  night. 
Who  ever  heard  of  a  man's  really  disliking 
women  !  It  is  only  some  particular  woman 
he  's  disliked.  He  won't  dislike  us  !  He 
sha'n't  dislike  me !  I  'm  going  to  take  him 
by  storm  !  Let  me  run  ahead  and  jump  in 
first."  And  she  danced  on  in  advance  of  the 
rest. 

"  Wait,  Mrs.  Wingate  !  "  cried  Mr.  Cravath, 
hurrying  after  her.  "  Let  me  come  with  you." 

But  he  was  too  late  ;  she  ran  on,  and  as  she 
reached  the  shore,  sprang  lightly  on  the  plank, 
calling  out :  "  Oh,  there  are  all  our  things  in 
already  !  Guide,  guide,  please  give  me  your 
hand,  quick !  I  want  to  be  the  first  one  in 
the  boat." 


286  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

Steve  rose  slowly,  —  turned.  At  the  first 
glimpse  of  his  face  Helen  Wingate  uttered  a 
shriek  which  rang  in  the  air,  and  fell  back 
wards  on  the  sand  insensible. 

"  Good  God!  she  lost  her  footing!"  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Cravath. 

"  She  is  killed  ! "  cried  the  others,  as  they 
hurried  breathlessly  to  the  spot.  But  when 
they  reached  it,  there  knelt  Dandy  Steve  on 
the  ground  by  her  side,  his  face  whiter  than 
hers,  his  eyes  streaming  with  tears,  his  arms 
around  her,  calling,  "  Helen  !  Helen  !  " 

At  the  sound  of  footsteps  and  voices  he 
looked  up,  and,  instantly  seeking  Mr.  Cra- 
vath's  face,  gasped :  "  She  is  my  wife,  Mr. 
Cravath!" 

The  dumbness  of  unutterable  astonishment 
fell  on  the  whole  party  at  these  words ;  but 
in  another  second,  rallying  from  the  shock, 
they  knelt  around  the  seemingly  lifeless  wo 
man,  trying  to  arouse  her.  Presently  she 
opened  her  eyes,  and,  seeing  Mrs.  Randall's 
face  bending  above  her,  said  faintly  :  "  It 's 
Stephen !  I  always  knew  I  should  find  him 
somewhere."  Then  she  sank  away  again  into 
unconsciousness. 


DANDY  STEVE.  287 

The  party  for  the  lakes  must  be  postponed ; 
that  was  evident.  Neither  would  it  go  out 
under  the  guidance  of  Dandy  Steve,  nor  would 
Mrs.  Wingate  go  with  it  ;  those  two  things 
were  equally  evident. 

Which  facts,  revolving  slowly  in  Old  Ben's 
brain,  led  him  to  seat  himself  on  the  §hore 
and  abide  the  course  of  events.  When,  about 
noon,  Mr.  Cravath  appeared,  coming  to  look 
after  their  hastily  abandoned  effects,  Old  Ben 
touched  his  hat  civilly,  and  said  :  "  Good-day, 
sir  ;  I  thought  maybe  I'd  get  this  job  o'  guidin' 
now.  Leastways,  I  'd  stay  by  yer  truck  here 
till  somebody  come  to  look  it  up." 

Old  Ben  was  the  guide  of  all  others  Mr. 
Cravath  would  have  chosen,  next  to  Dandy 
Steve. 

"  By  Jove,  Ben,"  he  said,  "  this  is  luck  ! 
Can  you  go  off  with  us  at  once  ?  Steve  has 
got  other  business  on  hand.  That  lady  is 
his  wife,  from  whom  he  has  been  separated 
many  years." 

"  So  I  heerd  him  say,  sir,  when  he  was  a- 
pickin'  her  up,"  answered  Ben,  composedly, 
as  if  such  things  were  a  daily  occurrence  in 
the  Adirondacks. 


288  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

"  Can  you  go  with  us  at  once  ? "  continued 
Mr.  Cravath. 

"  In  an  hour,  sir,"  said  Ben. 

And  in  an  hour  they  were  off,  a  bewil 
dered  but  on  the  whole  a  relieved  and  hap 
pier  party  than  they  had  been  in  the  morning. 
Helen  Wingate's  long  sorrow  in  the  mysteri 
ous  disappearance  of  her  husband  had  enno 
bled  and  purified  her  character,  and  greatly 
endeared  her  to  her  friends  ;  but  that  which 
had  seemed  to  them  to  be  explainable  only 
by  the  fact  of  his  death  or  his  unworthiness 
she  knew  was  explainable  by  her  own  folly 
and  pride. 

The  end  of  the  story  is  best  told  in  Old 
Ben's  words.  He  was  never  tired  of  tell 
ing  it. 

"I  never  heered  exactly  the  hull  partike- 
lers,"  he  said,  "  for  they  'd  gone  long  before 
we  got  back,  and  the  folks  she  was  with  wa'n't 
the  kind  that  talks  much  ;  but  I  could  see 
they  set  a  store  by  her.  They  'd  always  liked 
Steve,  too,  up  here  's  a  guide.  They  niver 
know'd  him  while  he  was  a-livin'  with  her, 
else  they  'd  ha'  know'd  him  here ;  but  he 
had  n't  lived  with  her  but  a  mighty  little 


DANDY  STEVE.  289 

while  's  near 's  I  could  make  out.  Yer  see, 
she  was  powerful  rich,  an'  he  had  n't  but  lit 
tle  ;  'n'  for  all  she  was  so  much  in  love  with 
him,  she  could  n't  help  a-throwin'  it  up  to 
him,  sort  o',  an'  he  could  n't  stan'  it.  So  he 
jest  lit  out ;  an'  he  'd  never  ha'  gone  back  to 
her,  —  never  under  the  shining  sun.  He'd 
got  jest  that  grit  in  him.  She  'd  been  a- 
huntin'  everywhere,  they  said,  —  all  over  Eu 
rope,  'n'  Azhay,  'n'  Africa,  till  she  'd  given 
up  huntin' ;  an'  he  was  right  close  tu  hum 
all  the  time.  He  was  a  first-rate  feller,  'n' 
we  was  all  glad  when  his  luck  come  ter  him 
't  last.  I  wished  I  could  ha'  seen  him  to  've 
asked  him  if  he  did  n't  b'leeve  in  luck  now ! 
Me  'n'  him  was  talkin'  about  luck  that  very 
mornin'  while  she  was  a-steppin'  down  the 
landin'  towards  him  's  fast  's  ever  she  could 
go  !  My  eyes  !  how  that  woman  did  come  a 
runnin',  an'  a-callin',  '  Guide  !  guide  ! '  I 
sha'n't  never  forgit  it.  I  asked  some  o'  the 
fellers  how  she  looked  when  they  went  off, 
an'  they  said  her  eyes  was  shinin'  like  stars  ; 
but  there  was  n't  any  more  of  her  face  to  be 
seen,  for  she  was  rolled  up  in  a  big  red  shawl. 
It  gits  hoppin'  cold  here  in  September.  I  Ve 
19 


2QO  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

always  thought  't  was  that  same  red  shawl  he 
had  in  his  cabin  ;  but  I  dunno  's  't  was." 

"  Wall,  I  bet  they  had  a  fust-rate  time  on  that 
weddin'  journey  o'  theirn,"  said  one  of  Ben's 
rougher  cronies  one  day  at  the  end  of  the  nar 
rative  ;  "  't  ain't  every  feller  gets  the  chance 
o'  two  honeymoons  with  the  same  woman." 

Old  Ben  looked  at  him  attentively.  "  Young 
ster,"  said  he,  "  't  ain't  strange,  I  suppose, 
young 's  you  be,  th't  ye  should  look  at  it  that 
way ;  but  ye  're  off,  crony.  Ye  don't  seem 
ter  recolleck  'bout  all  them  years  they  'd  lost 
out  of  their  lives.  I  tell  ye,  it 's  kind  o'  har- 
rowin'  ter  me.  Old  's  I  am,  and  hain't  never 
felt  no  call  ter  be  married  nuther,  it 's  kind  o' 
harrowin'  ter  me  yit  ter  think  o'  that  woman's 
yell  she  giv'  when  she  seed  Steve's  face.  If 
thar  war  n't  jest  a  hull  lifetime  o'  misery  in  't, 
'sides  the  joy  o'  nndin'  him,  I  ain't  no  jedge. 
I  have  n't  never  felt  no  call  ter  marry,  's  I 
sed  ;  but  if  I  had  I  would  n't  ha'  been  caught 
cuttin'  up  no  sech  didos  's  that,  —  a-throwin' 
away  years  o'  time  they  might  ha'  hed  to 
gether  'z  well 's  not !  Ther'  ain't  any  too 
much  o'  this  life,  anyhow ;  't  kinder  looks  ter 
you  youngsters  's  ef  't  'd  last  forever.  I  know 


DANDY  STEVE.  29 1 

how  't  is.  I  hain't  forgot  nothin',  old  's  I  am. 
But  I  tell  you,  when  ye  're  old  's  I  am,  'n* 
look  back  on  't,  ye  '11  be  s'prised  ter  see  how 
short  't  is,  an'  ye  '11  reelize  more  what  a  fool 
a  man  is,  or  a  woman  too,  —  an'  I  do  s'pose 
they  're  the  foolishest  o'  ther  two,  —  ter  waste 
a  minnit  out  on  't  on  querrils,  or  any  other 
kind  o'  foolin'." 


2Q2  BETWEEN   WHILES. 


THE  PRINCE'S  LITTLE  SWEETHEART. 

SHE  was  very  young.  No  man  had  ever 
made  love  to  her  before.  She  belonged 
to  the  people,  —  the  common  people.  Her 
parents  were  poor,  and  could  not  buy  any 
wedding  trousseau  for  her.  But  that  did  not 
make  any  difference.  A  carriage  was  sent 
from  the  Court  for  her,  and  she  was  carried 
away  "just  as  she  was,"  in  her  stuff  gown, — 
the  gown  the  Prince  first  saw  her  in.  He 
liked  her  best  in  that,  he  said ;  and,  more 
over,  what  odds  did  it  make  about  clothes  ? 
Were  there  not  rooms  upon  rooms  in  the 
palace,  full  of  the  most  superb  clothes  for 
Princes'  Sweethearts  ? 

It  was  into  one  of  these  rooms  that  she 
was  taken  first.  On  all  sides  of  it  were  high 
glass  cases  reaching  up  to  the  ceiling,  and 
filled  with  gowns  and  mantles  and  laces  and 


PRINCE'S  LITTLE  SWEETHEART.  293 

jewels ;  everything  a  woman  could  wear  was 
there,  and  all  of  the  very  finest.  What  sat 
ins,  what  velvets,  what  feathers  and  flowers  ! 
Even  down  to  shoes  and  stockings,  —  every 
shade  and  color  of  stockings  of  the  daintiest 
silk.  The  Little  Sweetheart  gazed  breathless 
at  them  all.  But  she  did  not  have  time  to 
wonder,  for  in  a  moment  more  she  was  met 
by  attendants,  some  young,  some  old,  all 
dressed  gayly.  She  did  not  dream  at  first 
that  they  were  servants,  till  they  began,  all 
together,  asking  her  what  she  would  like  to 
put  on.  Would  she  have  a  lace  gown,  or  a 
satin  ?  Would  she  like  feathers  or  flowers  ? 
And  one  ran  this  way,  and  one  that  ;  and 
among  them  all,  the  Little  Sweetheart  was  so 
flustered  she  did  not  know  if  she  were  really 
alive  and  on  the  earth,  or  had  been  trans 
ported  to  some  fairy  land.  And  before  she 
fairly  realized  what  was  being  done,  they  had 
her  clad  in  the  most  beautiful  gown  that  was 
ever  seen,  —  white  satin  with  gold  butterflies 
on  it,  and  a  white  lace  mantle  embroidered 
in  gold  butterflies.  All  white  and  gold  she 
was,  from  top  to  toe,  all  but  one  foot ;  and 
there  was  something  very  odd  about  that. 


294  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

She  heard  one  of  the  women  whispering  to 
the  other,  behind  her  back :  "  It  is  too  bad 
there  is  n't  any  mate  to  this  slipper !  Well, 
she  will  have  to  wear  this  pink  one.  It  is 
too  big ;  but  if  we  pin  it  up  at  the  heel  she 
can  keep  it  on.  The  Prince  really  must  get 
some  more  slippers." 

And  then  they  put  on  her  left  foot  a  pink 
satin  slipper,  which  was  so  much  too  big  it 
had  to  be  pinned  up  in  plaits  at  each  side, 
and  the  pearl  buckle  on  the  top  hid  her  foot 
quite  out  of  sight.  But  the  Little  Sweetheart 
did  not  care.  In  fact,  she  had  no  time  to 
think,  for  the  Queen  came  sailing  in  and 
spoke  to  her,  and  crowds  of  ladies  in  dresses 
so  bright  and  beautiful  that  they  dazzled  her 
eyes  ;  and  the  Prince  was  there  kissing  her, 
and  in  a  minute  they  were  married,  and  went 
floating  off  in  a  dance,  which  was  so  swift  it 
did  not  feel  so  much  like  dancing  as  it  did 
like  being  carried  through  the  air  by  a  gentle 
wind. 

Through  room  after  room,  —  there  seemed 
no  end  to  the  rooms,  and  each  one  more 
beautiful  than  the  last,  —  from  garden  to  gar 
den,  —  some  full  of  trees,  some  with  beautiful 


PRINCE'S  LITTLE  SWEETHEART.    295 

lakes  in  them,  some  full  of  solid  beds  of  flow 
ers, —  they  went,  sometimes  dancing,  some 
times  walking,  sometimes,  it  seemed  to  the 
Little  Sweetheart,  floating.  Every  hour  there 
was  some  new  b'eautiful  thing  to  see,  some 
new  beautiful  thing  to  do.  And  the  Prince 
never  left  her  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  ; 
and  when  he  came  back  he  brought  her  gifts 
and  kissed  her.  Gifts  upon  gifts  he  kept 
bringing,  till  the  Little  Sweetheart's  hands 
were  so  full  she  had  to  lay  the  things  down 
on  tables  or  window-sills,  wherever  she  could 
find  place  for  them,  —  which  was  not  easy,  for 
all  the  rooms  were  so  full  of  beautiful  things 
that  it  was  difficult  to  move  about  without 
knocking  something  down. 

The  hours  flew  by  like  minutes.  The  sun 
came  up  high  in  the  heavens,  but  nobody 
seemed  tired  ;  nobody  stopped,  —  dance,  dance, 
whirl,  whirl,  song  and  laughter  and  ceaseless 
motion.  That  was  all  that  was  to  be  seen  or 
heard  in  this  wonderful  Court  to  which  the 
Little  Sweetheart  had  been  brought. 

Noon  came,  but  nothing  stopped.  Nobody 
left  off  dancing,  and  the  musicians  played 
faster  than  ever. 


296  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

And  so  it  was  all  the  long  afternoon  and 
through  the  twilight ;  and  as  soon  as  it  was 
really  dark,  all  the  rooms  and  the  gardens 
and  the  lakes  blazed  out  with  millions  of 
lamps,  till  it  was  lighter  far  than  day ;  and 
the  ladies'  dresses,  as  they  danced  back  and 
forth,  shone  and  sparkled  like  butterflies' 
wings. 

At  last  the  lamps  began,  one  by  one,  to  go 
out,  and  by  degrees  a  soft  sort  of  light,  like 
moonlight,  settled  down  on  the  whole  place ; 
and  the  fine-dressed  servants  that  had  robed 
the  Little  Sweetheart  in  her  white  satin  gown 
took  it  off,  and  put  her  to  bed  in  a  gold  bed 
stead,  with  golden  silk  sheets. 

"  Oh,"  thought  the  Little  Sweetheart,  "  I 
shall  never  go  to  sleep  in  the  world,  and  I  'm 
sure  I  don't  want  to!  I  shall  just  keep  my 
eyes  open  all  night,  and  see  what  happens 
next." 

All  the  beautiful  clothes  she  had  taken  off 
were  laid  on  a  sofa  near  the  bed,  —  the  white 
satin  dress  at  top,  and  the  big  pink  satin  slip 
per,  with  its  huge  pearl  buckle,  on  the  floor  in 
plain  sight.  "  Where  is  the  other  ?  "  thought 
the  Little  Sweetheart.  "  I  do  believe  I  lost 


PRINCE'S  LITTLE  SWEETHEART.    297 

it  off.  That 's  the  way  they  come  to  have  so 
many  odd  ones.  But  how  queer  !  I  lost  off  the 
tight  one  !  But  the  big  one  was  pinned  to  my 
foot,"  she  said,  speaking  out  loud  before  she 
thought ;  "that  was  what  kept  it  on." 

"  You  are  talking  in  your  sleep,  my  love," 
said  the  Prince,  who  was  close  by  her  side, 
kissing  her. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not  asleep  at  all !  I  have  n't 
shut  my  eyes,"  said  the  Little  Sweetheart. 

And  the  next  thing  she  knew  it  was  broad 
daylight,  the  sun  streaming  into  her  room, 
and  the  air  resounding  in  all  directions  with 
music  and  laughter,  and  flying  steps  of 
dancers,  just  as  it  had  been  yesterday. 

The  Little  Sweetheart  sat  up  in  bed  and 
looked  around  her.  She  thought  it  very 
strange  that  she  was  all  alone !  the  Prince 
gone,  —  no  one  there  to  attend  to  her.  In  a 
few  moments  more  she  noticed  that  all  her 
clothes  were  gone,  too. 

"  Oh,"  she  thought,  "  I  suppose  one  never 
wears  the  same  clothes  twice  in  this  Court, 
and  they  will  bring  me  others  !  I  hope  there 
will  be  two  slippers  alike,  to-day." 

Presently   she   began  to  grow   impatient ; 


2Q8  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

but,  being  a  timid  little  creature,  and  having 
never  before  seen  the  inside  of  a  Court  or 
been  a  Prince's  sweetheart,  she  did  not  ven 
ture  to  stir,  or  to  make  any  sound,  —  only  sat 
still  in  her  bed,  waiting  to  see  what  would 
happen.  At  last  she  could  not  bear  the 
sounds  of  the  dancing  and  laughing  and 
playing  and  singing  any  longer.  So  she 
jumped  up,  and,  rolling  one  of  the  golden  silk 
sheets  around  her,  looked  out  of  the  window. 
There  they  all  were,  the  crowds  of  gay  peo 
ple,  just  as  they  had  been  the  day  before 
when  she  was  among  them,  whirling,  dancing, 
laughing,  singing.  The  tears  came  into  the 
Little  Sweetheart's  eyes  as  she  gazed.  What 
could  it  mean  that  she  was  deserted  in  this 
way,  —  not  even  her  clothes  left  for  her  ?  She 
was  as  much  a  prisoner  in  her  room  as  if  the 
door  had  been  locked. 

As  hour  after  hour  passed,  a  new  misery 
began  to  oppress  her.  She  was  hungry,  — 
seriously,  distressingly  hungry.  She  had  been 
too  happy  to  eat  the  day  before  !  Though  she 
had  sipped  and  tasted  many  delicious  bev 
erages  and  viands,  which  the  Prince  had 
pressed  upon  her,  she  had  not  taken  any 


PRINCE'S  LITTLE  SWEETHEART.    299 

substantial  food,  and  now  she  began  to  feel 
faint  for  the  want  of  it.  As  noon  drew  near, 
—  the  time  at  which  she  was  accustomed  in 
her  father's  house  to  eat  dinner,  —  the  pangs 
of  her  hunger  grew  unbearable. 

"  I  can't  bear  it  another  minute,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "  I  must,  and  I  will,  have  some 
thing  to  eat !  I  will  slip  down  by  some  back 
way  to  the  kitchen.  There  must  be  a  kitchen, 
I  suppose." 

So  saying,  she  opened  one  of  the  doors, 
and  timidly  peered  into  the  next  room.  It 
chanced  to  be  the  room  with  the  great  glass 
cases,  full  of  fine  gowns  and  laces,  where  she 
had  been  dressed  by  the  obsequious  attend 
ants  on  the  previous  day.  No  one  was  in 
the  room.  Glancing  fearfully  in  all  direc 
tions,  she  rolled  the  golden  silk  sheet  tightly 
around  her,  and  flew,  rather  than  ran,  across 
the  floor,  and  took  hold  of  the  handle  of  one 
of  the  glass  doors.  Alas  !  it  was  locked.  She 
tried  another,  —  another;  all  were  locked.  In 
despair  she  turned  to  fly  back  to  her  bedroom, 
when  suddenly  she  spied  on  the  floor,  in  a 
corner  close  by  the  case  where  hung  her 
beautiful  white  satin  dress,  a  little  heap  of 


300  BETWEEN  WHILES. 

what  looked  like  brown  rags.  She  darted 
toward  it,  snatched  it  from  the  floor,  and  in 
a  second  more  was  safe  back  in  her  room  ;  it 
was  her  own  old  stuff  gown. 

"  What  luck  !  "  said  the  Little  Sweetheart ; 
"  nobody  will  ever  know  me  in  this.  I  '11  put 
it  on,  and  creep  down  the  back  stairs,  and  beg 
a  mouthful  of  food  from  some  of  the  servants, 
and  they  '11  never  know  who  I  am  ;  and  then 
I  '11  go  back  to  bed,  and  stay  there  till  the 
Prince  comes  to  fetch  me.  Of  course,  he  will 
come  before  long ;  and  if  he  comes  and  finds 
me  gone,  I  hope  he  will  be  frightened  half  to 
death,  and  think  I  have  been  carried  off  by 
robbers  !  " 

Poor  foolish  Little  Sweetheart !  It  did  not 
take  her  many  seconds  to  slip  into  the  ragged 
old  stuff  gown ;  then  she  crept  out,  keeping 
close  to  the  walls,  so  that  she  could  hide  be 
hind  the  furniture  if  any  one  saw  her. 

She  listened  cautiously  at  each  door  before 
she  opened  it,  and  turned  away  from  some 
where  she  heard  sounds  of  merry  talking  and 
laughing.  In  the  third  room  that  she  entered 
she  saw  a  sight  that  arrested  her  instantly 
and  made  her  cry  out  in  astonishment,  —  a 


PRINCE'S  LITTLE  SWEETHEART.    301 

girl  who  looked  so  much  like  her  that  she 
might  have  been  her  own  sister,  and,  what 
was  stranger,  wore  a  brown  stuff  gown  ex 
actly  like  her  own,  was  busily  at  work  in  this 
room  with  a  big  broom  killing  spiders  !  As 
the  Little  Sweetheart  appeared  in  the  door 
way,  this  girl  looked  up,  a»d  said  :  "  Oh,  ho  ! 
there  you  are,  are  you  ?  I  thought  you  'd  be 
out  before  long."  And  then  she  laughed 
unpleasantly. 

"Who  are  you?"  said  the  Little  Sweet 
heart,  beginning  to  tremble  all  over. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  a  Prince's  Sweetheart !  "  said 
the  girl,  laughing  still  more  unpleasantly ; 
and,  leaning  on  her  broom,  she  stared  at  the 
Little  Sweetheart  from  top  to  toe. 

"  But  —  "  began  the  Little  Sweetheart. 

"  Oh,  we  're  all  Princes'  Sweethearts  !  "  in 
terrupted  several  voices,  coming  all  at  once 
from  different  corners  of  the  big  room ;  and, 
before  the  Little  Sweetheart  could  get  out 
another  word,  she  found  herself  surrounded 
by  half  a  dozen  or  more  girls  and  women,  all 
carrying  brooms,  and  all  laughing  unpleas 
antly  as  they  looked  at  her. 

"  What !  "  she  gasped,  as  she  gazed  at  their 


302  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

stuff  gowns  and  their  brooms.  "  You  were  all 
of  you  Princes'  Sweethearts  ?  Is  it  only  for 
one  day,  then  ?  " 

"  Only  for  one  day,"  they  all  replied. 

"  And  always  after  that  do  you  have  to  kill 
spiders  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  Yes  ;  that  or  nothing,"  they  said.  "  You 
see  it  is  a  great  deal  of  work  to  keep  all  the 
rooms  in  this  Court  clean." 

"  Is  n't  it  very  dull  work  to  kill  spiders  ?  " 
said  the  Little  Sweetheart. 

"  Yes,  very,"  they  said,  all  speaking  at 
once.  "  But  it  's  better  than  sitting  still, 
doing  nothing." 

"  Don't  the  Princes  ever  speak  to  you  ? " 
sobbed  the  Little  Sweetheart. 

"  Yes,  sometimes,"  they  answered. 

Just  then  the  Little  Sweetheart's  own 
Prince  came  hurrying  by,  all  in  armor  from 
head  to  foot,  —  splendid  shining  armor,  that 
clinked  as  he  walked. 

"  Oh,  there  he  is  !  "  cried  the  Little  Sweet 
heart,  springing  forward  ;  then  suddenly  she 
recollected  her  stuff  gown,  and  shrunk  back 
into  the  group.  But  the  Prince  had  seen 
her. 


PRINCE'S  LITTLE  SWEETHEART.    303 

"  Oh,  how  d'  do  !  "  he  said  kindly.  "  I  was 
wondering  what  had  become  of  you.  Good 
bye  !  I  'm  off  for  the  grand  review  to-day. 
Don't  tire  yourself  out  over  the  spiders. 
Good-bye  !  "  And  he  was  gone. 

"  I  hate  him  !  "  cried  the  Little  Sweetheart, 
her  eyes  flashing,  and  her  cheeks  scarlet. 

"  Oh  no,  you  don't ! "  exclaimed  all  the 
spider-sweepers.  "  That 's  the  worst  of  it. 
You  may  think  you  do  ;  but  you  don't.  You 
love  him  all  the  time  after  you  've  once 
begun." 

"I'll  go  home!"  said  the  Little  Sweet 
heart. 

"  You  can't,"  said  the  others.  "  It  is  not 
permitted." 

"  Is  it  always  just  like  this  in  this  Court  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Yes ;  always  the  same.  One  day  just 
like  another,  —  all  whirl  and  dance  from 
morning  till  night,  and  new  people  coming 
and  going  all  the  time,  and  spiders  most  of 
all.  You  can't  think  how  fast  brooms  wear 
out  in  this  Court !  " 

"  I  '11  die  !  "  said  the  Little  Sweetheart. 

"  Oh  no,  you  won't !  "  they  said.     "  There 


304  BETWEEN   WHILES. 

are  some  of  us,  in  some  of  the  rooms  here, 
that  are  wrinkled  and  gray-haired.  The  most 
of  the  Sweethearts  live  to  be  old." 

"Do  they?"  said  the  Little  Sweetheart, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Heavens  ! "  cried  I,  "  what  a  dream  ! "  as 
I  opened  my  eyes.  There  stood  the  Little 
Sweetheart  in  my  room,  vanishing  away,  so 
vivid  had  been  the  dream.  "  A  most  extra 
ordinary  dream  !  "  said  I.  "  I  will  write  it 
out.  Some  of  the  Princes  may  read  it ! " 


University  Press :   John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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LD  21-100m-7,'52(A2528sl6)476 


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